Five Words or Less
by AGriffinWriter
Summary: What if Buffy had paid more attention to what Spike says directly after, "Out. For. A. Walk . . . B*tch."? How would she have responded if she'd caught his blunder? Spuffy AU Season 5. M for action/violence/torture, mild language, character deaths, and "lusty wrong feelings". Runner-up Best Unfinished Fic, Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards, rd 28
1. Chapter 1: Idle Words

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Reviews and other feedback are always appreciated! Right now I'm contemplating how to get rid of Riley as rapidly (in the plot) and slowly (long painful death!) as possible. ;) Well, to be honest, I'll probably have him succumb to Sandy's temptation a little too enthusiastically and see where I go from there.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. _Italics_ outside of dialogue usually signify someone's thoughts, typically Spike's or Buffy's, but will sometimes be used for dreams/flashbacks. This chapter includes quotes from S5:5 "No Place Like Home" and a phrase from S5:10 "Into the Woods".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike realizes he is massively crushed out on Buffy. Audience watches very scared monks run from mystery beast. Giles opens the magic shop and immediately hires Anya. Joyce is having weird headaches, and when Buffy goes into a trance to try to find out why, she sees Dawn disappearing. Following a tip off from Giles, Buffy leaves her house to head for the factory where she found the Dagon's Sphere, and runs into a certain blond hottie in her yard._

* * *

Chapter 1: Idle Talk

"I'm just passing through. Satisfied? You know, I really do hope so, 'cause God knows you need some satisfaction in life, besides shagging Captain Cardboard. And . . . and I never really liked you anyway. And . . . you have stupid hair!"

Before he lets his mouth run away with him any longer, Spike turns on his heel and stomps away dramatically across Buffy's front lawn, his leather duster swaying around his ankles. Buffy pauses briefly, trying to process what her former enemy, now neutered pain-in-the-butt has just said.

"Hold on just a minute, mister!" she yells after him, her brow furrowed.

He halts, looking back over his shoulder in irritation. "What now, Slayer? I've got places to go and squirming weasels to wring money out of."

"Did you just say what I _think_ you said?" she demands, her little nose all scrunched up with frustration.

Spike freezes and internally backtracks through his brash words, wondering which exact phrase has earned him this particular dose of Buffy scowl. Surely it was the slight on her hair – the sort of remark that would put a dent in the girl's precious ego – and thankfully it gave no hint of his recently realized obsession with her.

"Sure as I'm not breathin', pet," he sneers, smirking. "I said 'you have stupid hair'. Patchy roots growing out, ends are too blonde, looks too silky . . ." _Bloody hell! There goes my mouth again_! He snaps his jaw shut and clenches his hands into fists at his sides, trying not to dwell on his desire to run his fingers through those soft golden strands . . .

"Says the guy with hair like a greased polar bear!" Buffy counters, clearly insulted. "But that's not the point!"

Spike gulps uncomfortably, speculating if his long escape from death is drawing to a quick and painful close._ If Buffy realizes I've fallen for her . . ._

"What then? Like I said, Slayer, haven't got all night."

"Did you seriously say 'I never really liked you anyway'?"

Spike's unbeating heart skips inside his chest. "Yeah . . . what about it?" he asks with feigned casualness.

Buffy takes a deliberate step toward him, fixing him with her steely green gaze.

"_You_ never _really_ liked _me_?"

Swallowing quickly, Spike masks his trepidation with a snort. "No!" he snaps, staring down his chiseled nose at Buffy. She looks right back into his blue eyes, eyebrows pinched together. "No?" he says again, but softer this time, tilting his head, trying to read her expression.

"You . . . _never_ . . . really . . . _liked_ . . . me . . . _anyway_," she says, emphasizing alternate words. "What is that supposed to mean? Of course you've never liked me. You hate me, almost as much as I hate _you_. Are you talking about Willow's stupid spell last year?"

She gives a little shudder of disgust, and it takes all of Spike's self-control not to sigh in relief. _The Slayer hasn't caught on, can't see I'm so crazy about her I'm slippin' up, getting' caught spyin' on her, bloody near admittin' it to her face_.

"Well, yeah," he drawls, pulling another cigarette out of the carton in his duster pocket and flicking open his lighter. "As if anything could make me forget how much I loathe you, Slayer. Red's spell was just to make us get hitched, not moon over each other like the whelp and his ex-vengeance hussy."

_Pow_! Buffy's fist sinks familiarly into the already swollen bridge of Spike's nose.

"Oi!"

"Don't talk about Xander and Anya like that!"

"Sorry, couldn't catch that in all this concussion," he snaps right back, pinching his nose to quell the dribble of borrowed blood. In hindsight, he considers, a few Slayer-strength punches aren't too terrible a punishment for a few minutes of her presence. At least she is touching him . . . in an aggressive, excruciating, nose-breaking kind of way. "Oh, just brilliant. You snapped my smoke."

He holds up the broken nicotine stick, half of it dangling on by a few fibers. Buffy rolls her eyes, but then catches sight of something on the ground behind him.

"Holy cow, Spike! How long have you been creeping around outside my house?!" She jabs a finger at the pile of cigarette butts under the tree. "Did you just stand there and smoke a whole pack just to be a jerk? You littered all over my lawn!"

_Thank my stars she's more upset over the landscape than about how long I've been here, starin' up at her window, wishin' I was holdin' her, feelin' her beneath me . . ._

"Oh, pl-ease," he snorts, wiping the last of the blood off his lip. "They're not 'all over' – "

"They're gross! Clean those up right now!" Buffy screeches, cutting him off.

Spike lifts his scared brow teasingly, stepping closer to Buffy. "I see how it is. Want me to grovel at your dainty little feet, eh Slayer? Kneel and obey the chosen one?"

"I said _clean them up_ and _throw them away_!" she orders, her tone rising in volume and squeakiness.

Spike saunters forward another step, standing so close he can smell the fruity scent of her shampoo, almost close enough to plant a kiss on her if he dared. To him, her furious glare is adorable, the hint of a pout on her luscious lips, her eyes piercing into his.

"Why don't you _make_ me, luv?" he whispers, tongue lingering sexily against his lower teeth, his unneeded breathing accelerating every time he draws in her scent. Buffy doesn't move, seemingly paralyzed by his brazen nearness. Her eyes jump in rapid succession from Spike's eyes to his full lips floating only inches from hers, the fluttering of her lashes tormenting him.

"Buffy," he murmurs suddenly, almost shaking with suppressed longing. His eyes start to close as he tilts his head another few degrees to the side, craving her lips.

Then Buffy's right knee snaps up and plows directly into his crotch. He lets out a strangled moan as fireworks of pain rip through his body. His knees buckle instantly, and he crashes to the grass, his face landing in the cigarette debris.

"Oh, God!" Eyes watering, he rolls over, curls into a fetal position, and grits his teeth together to keep from howling in agony.

"It's not like you have any use for that," Buffy taunts threateningly, standing over him with her arms crossed. "You're already impotent."

He just hisses at her through his clenched teeth, his most sensitive region throbbing with pain.

"I don't have time for you, Spike. I've got stuff to do, but when I get back, if I find _one_ cigarette butt in my yard . . . just _ONE_ . . . you'll _wish_ I was merciful enough to put you out of your misery."

"Yeah," Spike winces, his right cheek flat against the dewy grass, breath coming in ragged puffs. "I'm the ruddy grateful undead."

He hears the crunch of grass right beside him and braces himself, expecting her to add a kick to his back or ribs to the one she's already bestowed on his groin. But she doesn't, and a moment later her heels rhythmically _click_-_click_-_click_ on her driveway as she stalks away from him. He waits a few seconds to make sure she's out of earshot, then tightens his arms around his midsection and lets out of string of pain-induced swear words.

"Spike, is that you?"

Panicking, he whips his head around and claps a hand over his mouth at the sight of Dawn standing at the edge of the porch. _Oh, brilliant job, you git. Slayer's sis and mum are the two people who seem most willing to tolerate me, and any hope of getting close to her will have to include them._

"Blimey, Bit, didn't hear you sneakin' up on me. Sorry 'bout . . . uh . . . well, just don't go repeating any of that to your mum. She hears language like that out'a you and she'll find another axe to hit me with."

Dawn shrugs. "I won't."

Nodding his thanks, Spike rolls onto his hands and knees, then slowly sits back on his haunches, testing his pain threshold.

"Got you in the nuts, didn't she?" Dawn deduces, watching Spike's labored movement.

He grimaces, leans forward again, and grudgingly starts picking up the cigarette butts. "Packs quite a kick, your big sis."

Dawn crosses her arms, clearly irritated. "She thinks something's wrong with me. Said I wasn't really her sister."

"That right?" Spike looks up at Dawn, tilting his head in surprise.

The teenager glares off in the direction in which Buffy left. "Uh-huh. She pushed me into the wall and hurt my arm. Then she acted like I was the one making Mom sick."

"Aww, that's rubbish. You Summers women may cat-fight when you're pissed, but you'll always come out together. You're inseparable."

Dawn half-smiles. "Thanks, Spike. I'm glad you think so."

"It's nothin', Niblet." He's managed to recover all the cigarette stumps, stuffing them deep into a pocket of his duster. He stands up gingerly, scratching the back of his neck. "Guess I'd better be going before . . ."

"Would you stay for a little, please?" she pleads, bounding off the porch and running to stand between him and the street. "I'm scared, and Mom's sick, and I can't do anything to help her. Please stay, Spike. If you're scared of Buffy you can go before she gets back."

"Eh! I'm not afraid of Buffy! I've killed two Slayer before, you know," he adds warningly, puffing out his chest. Dawn just shrugs.

"Please just hang out here with me, Spike. Please?"

Eyes rolling up at the stars, Spike heaves a sigh. "Oh, alright, Bit, I'll crash on your couch and keep you company, but I expect a steamy cup of hot chocolate with extra marshmallows for my trouble."

Dawn grins delightedly and skips up the porch steps, holding the door open for Spike to follow her into the house.

* * *

[_Two hours and one fight with a hell-goddess later _. . .]

Buffy limps slowly down Revello Drive, rubbing a sore spot over her collarbone. She doesn't think any of her bones are broken, but she can tell from the aches in her legs and torso that she's sporting some serious bruising and will probably wake up sore tomorrow morning.

She reaches the mailbox of 1630 and is halfway up the driveway before she remembers the shadowy lurking vampire whom she'd caught before leaving. Barely caring, she looks over at the spot under the tree. Well, at least the yard is clean now, no more of those stupid cigarettes.

_Seriously_, she wonders as she walks up to the porch and digs out her keys, _how long was Spike skulking out here? Is he really so bored that he has to get his kicks from littering in my lawn and giving me weird mixed-signals? "I never really liked you anyway". What a dumb thing to say._

Newly aggravated, Buffy pushes open the front door, favoring her stiff right shoulder. As soon as she closes the door, a distinctly Dawn-ish giggle from the living room draws her attention. Buffy takes a few steps towards the sound, and what she sees makes her do several motionless double-takes.

There, on the couch in her living room, is _Spike_, sitting between her mom and Dawn, a half-empty mug of hot cocoa in his pale hands. His carefree smile vanishes the moment his eyes meet Buffy's stern ones.

"Buffy, you're home," says Joyce sweetly.

Noticing her sister, Dawn stands up and crosses her arms. "I wasn't bothering her," she mutters grumpily.

"Er, me neither," Spike adds quickly, setting his mug down on a coaster on the coffee table. "Right then. Guess I've overstayed my welcome. Better be off."

He pats Dawn on the shoulder, cautiously steps around Buffy, and takes his leather duster down off the coat rack. Buffy hears Dawn scurry up the stairs, but all her attention is focused on her undead and unwanted houseguest.

"Why are you still here?" she whispers harshly.

"Little sis wanted me around to keep her company, is all," Spike answers, his tone appeasing. "No need to get shirty about it. I just . . . thought you might like someone keeping a lookout for your mum while she's not at her best."

"Well, you don't count as someone. I don't have time to deal with you right now, Spike."

She exhales tiredly, shifting from one sore leg to the other. Noting her sensitive movement, Spike's eyes scan over her, and when they finally rest on her face, Buffy is surprised to see deep concern in his expression.

"Are you hurt, Slayer? Looks like you've been through one hell of a fight."

_That look of kindness in his eyes is so . . . _not_ him. This is Spike, Big Bad turned double-crossing, skulking loser. He's not supposed to _care_ if I come home beaten to a pulp. He's not supposed to be at _my_ home when I come home!_

"Just get lost, Spike," Buffy orders, opening the front door and wearily glaring at him.

"Right," he murmurs quietly. "Goodnight, Buffy."

Still wearing that repentant look, he sweeps through the doorway, glancing back at her when he's crossed the porch. Frowning quizzically, Buffy closes and locks the door, then watches through the rectangular windows as Spike slowly strolls away from her house.

"What's that all about?" asks Joyce, taking another sip of tea as her eldest daughter lingers at the entrance to the living room.

"Nothing, Mom," Buffy shrugs, regretting it when her shoulder throbs. "Just . . . Spike stuff. I . . . um . . . I need to go talk to Dawn."


	2. Chapter 2: Harmless

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: This goes slightly but not radical AU – have to get nasty Riley out of the picture – but the Spuffy feelings will bloom and multiply soon! And to those of your lovely readers who have requested a _Hell's Bells_ re-write, your wish will soon be granted!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter draws heavily on S5:6 "Family", including some direct or slightly altered quotes.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: After getting the stuffing kicked out of him by Buffy, Spike cleans the cigarette butts off the Summers' yard, then Dawn invites him inside for cocoa and marshmallows. Buffy gets thrown around by a super-powered slut-bomb (Glory), escapes with dying monk, and finds out Dawn is a mystical key. Returning home, she finds said blond hottie on her couch and tells him to hit the road. He complies, after noting how beat-up she looks. Also, surprise! Tara's creepy family arrives and accuses her of being a demon!_

* * *

Chapter 2: Harmless

"Where's Dawn?"

In the bustle of packing up her dorm room and worrying over her mom, Buffy suddenly realizes that she hasn't seen her sister in several minutes. Distraught, she pushes between Xander and Riley and rushes out into the hall.

"Dawn?"

"She's here with me, Slayer."

She stops short at the sight of her sister standing in the hallway right outside her room with – of all the people she neither expected nor wanted to see – _Spike_. Buffy can't decide whether to feel relieved or angered, so she settles for confused and gapes at them.

"Some of your CDs are my CDs," Dawn informs her in the moment of silence, indicating the contents of the half-full box in her arms.

"Never took you for a boy-band groupie, Slayer," Spike grins, glancing over Dawn's shoulder into the unorganized box. "Someone should seriously educate your taste in tunes. This bubble-gum pop rubbish is definitely produced by demons."

"Spike," Buffy huffs, crossing her arms disapprovingly. "How'd you get in here? It's day, and there are tons of people around."

Spike shrugs. "There's a sewer manhole right outside, blanket got me the rest of the way. Heard you needed help moving–"

"I don't need your help, Spike. I never need _you_."

"Who's come to help?" asks Anya brightly, leaning out through one of the doorways. "Oh, yes, please! We're moving out everything that we just moved in. I'm only doing it because it makes Xander sweaty, which makes him want to have sex."

Buffy rolls her eyes, and Spike shudders and teasingly puts his hands over Dawn's ears.

"And you think _I_'m a bad influence on the Lil' Bit here?" he laughs at Buffy while Dawn giggles and squirms free.

"Anya's not a demon anymore," counters Buffy, thoroughly irritated, not to mention wary of Spike touching her sister, even in a playful way. "And I know _she_'s not here to steal my stuff."

With a falsely wounded expression, Spike lays his hand dramatically over his heart as Dawn scampers back into the dorm room. "Oh, you got me, Slayer. Clean through the pacemaker. Oh, the pain."

"Either get the hell out of here or tell me exactly what 'I never really liked you anyway' meant last night," Buffy suddenly accuses, irritated that Spike keeps showing up when she couldn't care less if she never saw his pasty face again.

Spike's eyes widen momentarily, then he kicks lightly at the baseboard, fidgeting with guilt that he'd been stupid enough to almost admit his feelings.

"Alright, fine, Buffy. You caught me. I'm here to nick your trinkets to decorate my decrepit and hopelessly homely crypt. Satisfied?"

"Out, Spike!"

Fed up with his teasing attitude and mixed signals, Buffy seizes his blanket from the floor and pelts him with it. A second later, she winces, aching all over from her battle with the mysterious and tacky superwoman in the warehouse. Spike sees her reflexive squint of pain and tilts his head, a line of worry across his forehead.

"Buffy, what is it?"

"Starting to feel that fight?" asks Riley, drawing Buffy away as Spike remains standing just outside the room, staring in concern at his sore Slayer. He waits, hoping she'll reemerge, but instead Tara exits with a full box of clothes just as Willow appears from the stairwell. Caught between the two girls, Spike shoulders his blanket awkwardly.

"Morning, ladies."

"What are you doing here? Are you trying to steal things from Buffy?" demands Willow.

"Aw, bugger. Why does no one assume I'm just here to lend a hand, is all?"

"Maybe because of your shifty eyes," suggests Tara with a grin.

"Or the fact that you're a demon who's tried to bite me at least twice," Willow reminds him.

"Just swell," he snorts in annoyance. "Let's all gang up on Ol' Spike 'cuz Dru left him, and Soldier Boy's mates did a number on him, and the Slayer won't look twice at–"

"Why would you want Buffy to look twice at you?" asks Tara with an astutely curious expression as Willow strolls back into the dorm room.

"Uh . . . it's a . . . an ego thing . . . Slayer should be wary of a killer like me," he recovers clumsily, knotting up his hands behind his back. "I was the Scourge of Europe in my hey day. Slayer should remember that, in case the chip were to stop working or . . . somethin'."

"Uh-huh," Tara says skeptically, keeping her eyes trained on Spike as she takes a few steps down the hallway and then departs for the stairwell. The moment she's gone, Spike stuffs his prize – a thin blue cashmere sweater, covered in potent Slayer musk – into his duster pocket and sweeps away toward another of the building's stairwells.

* * *

The chief thought in Spike's head as he sloshes through the final bend in the sewer tunnels and into the lower floor of his crypt is that he probably should give up on the whole 'scampering about in daylight' phase. The hair on his left temple is definitely singed, along with his left hand from fingertips to wrist. Grumbling darkly, he deposits the blue sweater next to the wig-embellished mannequin and trudges up the ladder to the top floor, intent on doing nothing for the next several hours except drinking a pint each of blood and whiskey and then sleeping until nightfall.

"You're back, pumpkin!" squeals an excited voice from the improvised bed, a sarcophagus layered with cushioning peach-colored coverlets. Spike's spine instantly clenches in aggravation at the sight of the brainless blonde. _Whatever possessed me to allow the most annoying creature in the known universe back into my crypt_? _Oh, yeah, 'cuz I can't have the girl I want_ . . .

"I thought maybe we could . . . snuggle," Harmony suggests gleefully, and from the tone in her voice Spike can tell she's wearing even fewer clothes than usual, probably all bare under the blankets, eager for him.

"Need a drink," he mutters noncommittally, walking over to the fridge.

Harmony pouts. "You say that like you need a drink because you can't stand to look at me!"

"That right about sums things up," whispers Spike, too quietly for her to hear. Maybe, if he had a bit more booze than he strictly needed, he could drift into a fantasy . . . imagine Harm was Buffy . . . think of sparring her, wrestling until they're both panting and hot, and then . . .

But then his eyes would open, Harmony would be beneath him instead of Buffy, and he'd been just as dissatisfied as before. As innocuous a distraction as Harmony is, Spike knows he can't pretend anymore. The ditsy vampire girl has lost what little attraction he ever held for her, and all he can see is the Slayer.

Finally locating an indeterminate bottle of alcohol, Spike tips a mouthful down his throat, swallows with his eyes closed, and sets the bottle down by his TV.

"Get dressed, Harm," he orders gently, keeping his back to her.

"What? But Spikey . . ."

"I can't do this anymore, Harm. You're . . . you're a nice girl, despite being a little empty between your ears. I know this saying's gone stale, but it's not _you_, it's _me_, it really is. I've got my heart set on some other bird, and if I kept it up with you, I'd just be settling, making pretend you were her. And it isn't fair to either of us, Harm, s'pecially not you."

"But . . . but . . ." Harmony blubbers, "but Spikey . . . my little lamb . . ."

"Y'know what . . . I lied. It's not _me_, it's _you_. You're boring, and I loathe you. Find your clothes and scram, before I change my mind and stake you."

She starts crying in earnest, whining and wailing as she scrambles in the covers. "But . . . I've got nowhere to go!"

Spike sarcastically puts his hands in the pockets of his jeans and pulls them inside out, his face the epitome of sympathy before switching into a jeering snarl. "Sorry, baby, 'fraid I'm fresh out of 'give a care's."

* * *

It takes another half hour of yelling and several broken possessions before the sniveling Harmony finally packs her bags and scampers into the sewers. With a mental note to steal a padlock for the sewer entrance to his crypt, Spike waits until sunset and then stalks across the cemetery and meanders through the streets of Sunnydale, his feet charting a course to Willy's bar without really thinking about it. Slipping in through the back door, he nicks a bottle of whiskey off the shelf while the assisting bartender – a rougher looking man than Willy – is distracted with a customer.

As Spike slides into a booth and uncorks the bottle, he hears an irritatingly familiar voice and realizes the human at the bar is _Riley_, drinking shots of whiskey and mumbling in his usual surly fashion. Shrinking a little lower into his seat, Spike listens attentively as a sultry, fairly attractive young woman sidles up to Soldier Boy.

"Drinking alone? That's not a good sign," the woman says. Even a blind man could tell she's hitting him up, not to mention that she's a vampire. Completely unperturbed, Riley exchanges words with her, then orders her a drink. Spike passes his whiskey bottle between his own hands, curious at Riley's amiable attitude. _Have he and Buffy fallen out? God, I hope so, not that it'd give me a chance_ . . .

Riley and the vampire, Sandy, sip their drinks and chat quietly, but Spike's attention is pulled away as the jovial demons in the booth next to his suddenly chuckle in throaty voices at something a newcomer just said.

"Lai-ach demon? You sure?"

"Positive. Some big nether-wig's got him recruiting his brethren to kill the Slayer."

Without caring that he probably has a bad rep with the chatting demons, Spike wheels around in his seat and looks over the booth at them. "How's that?" he demands, keeping his voice low enough so that Riley can't overhear him.

The bar patrons growl in brusque tones at the sight of him.

"What do you care, turncoat?" snarls a creature with salmon-colored, scaly skin.

Spike swallows. It would truly be the end of his reputation as Sunnydale's former Big Bad if this lot were to find out about his hopeless, love-sick obsession with Buffy. Better to play it cool.

"Gonna get myself a decent seat. If the Slayer's gonna die, I'm gonna watch."

Leaving his stolen whiskey on the table, Spike heads for the door and out towards the Magic Box, breaking into a run.

* * *

No matter how many times she pounds it, the punching bag in the Magic Box training room doesn't assuage Buffy's bad mood. Between the tiff with Riley and the lack of identifying info about the woman in the warehouse, her barrel of self-confidence is at a record low. It was the mention of Riley's residual government connections that kept her from telling him anything about Dawn, for fear that he would pass it on to Graham and his superiors. Besides, if she told Riley, she would feel guilty not sharing the truth with Willow and Xander, thus defeating the purpose of maintaining normal interactions with Dawn. _How do you keep up appearances if everyone knows your peevish little sister is some kind of inter-dimensional key?_

Suddenly wary, Buffy turns around, glancing throughout the otherwise empty training room. At the last second, she raises her arm and feels a heavy blow rain down on her.

"Giles!" she shouts as she's pushed to the floor. "There's something in here!"

Rolling around, she spin-kicks through the air, then feels something seize her around the shoulders from behind. She flails against her unseen aggressor and hears the back door open, but still sees no one else in the room with her.

"Buffy, on your left!"

"Spike?!" she exclaims, looking around wildly for the source of his voice. "I can't see them!"

She hears him growl aggressively, then the sounds of a tussle in the corner. Grabbing blindly, she finds a fistful of her invisible enemy, throws it headlong into a wall, then rushes into the main shop.

"Uh, you're welcome," Spike mumbles, struggling with one of the two Lai-ach demon, the other lying immobile with its head staved in after colliding with the wall. In another few moments, he gets his arms around the creature's neck and twists the head with a satisfying crunch. Standing, he straightens his duster and heads through the training room door into the shop. Three strangers – two men and a meek-looking woman – are in the doorway, their mouths agape, staring down at the last of the Lai-ach demons with it's neck broken under Buffy's foot.

"What in the name of God is that . . .?" the older of the two men gasps.

"Lai-ach demon," Spike pipes up. "Fun little buggers; big with the marrow-sucking."

He watches skeptically from the back as the strangers denounce Tara as part demon and demand that she leave town with them, until first Buffy and then Dawn take a stance between Tara and the sour-faced elderly man.

"Is this a joke?" Tara's father splutters. "I am not going to be threatened by two little girls."

"You don't want to mess with us," says Dawn in a distinctively Buffy-ish tone.

"She's a hair-puller," Buffy warns with a nod at Dawn.

"And," Giles steps in, also facing Mr. Maclay, "you're not just dealing with two little girls."

"You're dealing with all of us," Xander informs him.

"E'cept me," calls out Spike, though in all honesty he's ready to charge to Buffy's defense should the annoying old man make any move against her. And besides, Tara's never bullied him, so he lumps her in the 'Scoobies Who Tolerate Spike Club' with Joyce and Dawn.

"Except Spike," Xander concedes.

"I don't care what happens," Spike adds, enjoying the highly confused look on Mr. Maclay's face.

After another few minutes of muted shouting, Anya speaks up from behind the counter.

"Excuse me," she asks, raising her hand until everyone turns to look at her. "What kind?"

"What?" says the perpetually unhappy woman beside Tara's father and brother.

"What kind of demon is she? There's a lot of different kinds, some are very evil, some have been considered to be useful members of society."

Off the hesitant looks on the Maclay patriarch's face, Spike grins and strolls forward rolling up the right sleeve of his duster.

"Uh-huh, why don't I make this simple . . ."

Tapping Tara gently on the back of her shoulder, he cocks his fist and pops her in the nose with a quick jab. Before she can even lift her hand to her face, Spike reels backward, wrenching pain shooting through his skull.

"Gyahh!"

"Ow!"

"Hey!" snaps Willow, before suddenly realizing the intent of Spike's action. "Hey!"

"He hit my nose!" Tara mumbles, still confused.

"And it hurt! I mean, him!"

"And that only works with humans . . ." says Buffy, shooting Spike a grateful smile before rounding on Mr. Maclay again.

"There's no demon in there," Spike mutters with a nod at Tara, his new headache slowly dissipating. "That's just the family legend, am I right? Bit of spin to keep the ladies in line? Oh, you're a piece of work. I like you," he adds with a threatening smile at Mr. Maclay.

"I'm not a demon," Tara says in relief.

"You're not a demon," grins Willow.

"He hurt my nose."

"Yeah, you're welcome," Spike says curtly, strolling back towards the training room. The moment Tara's disreputable family vacate the shop, Buffy follows him.

"Spike."

He stops and turns to her, wary. "Yeah, Slayer?"

"Um . . ." Buffy begins, looking slightly embarrassed. "Thanks . . . for proving Tara's alright. You didn't have to do that, but it sure helped."

Her thanks is genuine, full of the realization that just because his chip prevents him from harming them doesn't automatically mean he's forced to aid them, that his choice to act as witness to Tara's humanity was completely of his own volition. At the same time, Buffy also notices the two bodies of the Lai-ach demons on the training room floor.

"You were here right as they attacked me, weren't you? Fighting with me?"

"_With_, meaning _on your side_, yeah," he nods. "Knew somethin' was off. You never throw punches as wild as that, Slayer. I know you always make your mark."

He rubs the side of his nose fondly, a smile on the corner of his lips.

"Well, thanks anyway. For both things," says Buffy.

"It was nothin'," Spike replies quietly. _Can't you see, pet? Can't you see I only did it for you_?

"This may be a little weird, but . . . do you want to come to Tara's birthday party? We're all going over to the Bronze right now?"

It takes Spike a few seconds to fight the flabbergasted look on his face before he's able to nod. "Yeah, I'd love to," he answers, his throat a little constricted. "Let me run back to my crypt and find a little somethin' for her. Meet you there."

"Great," Buffy says with just a hint of a smile, then she turns around and rejoins the rest of the Scoobies. Spike stares after her for a moment before heading out the back door, skirting around the sidestreets until he arrives at his crypt, and pausing at the door to listen for any sound of Harmony. Reassured that his dwelling is empty, he hunts through his meager book collection until he locates a little volume on flower and herb identification. It's witchy enough to seem like a stereotypical present, but hopefully practical enough that Tara will appreciate it . . . which might hopefully lead to a comment to Buffy about how considerate he is. Because, in the end, it's all for Buffy.

The party is already in full swing by the time he enters, but after a quick glance around the crowded Bronze, Spike grins as he realizes he's arrived before Riley. A renewed spring in his step, Spike saunters over to the birthday girl and hands over his unwrapped present.

"Cheers, Glinda," he grins. "Hope you haven't got one already. And sorry 'bout your nose."

"Wow, Spike," says Tara, skimming through the book. "This is so thoughtful. Thank you!"

_Buffy definitely heard that, didn't she?_ Spike wonders desperately, but his hopes are crushed as Buffy spots Riley and hurries away without a backwards glance. Churlishly, Spike stuffs his hands in his duster pockets and walks over to where Xander, Anya, Willow and Dawn are playing pool. He leans against a support column and listens in on Buffy and Riley.

"Sorry I'm late."

"You came!"

"Of course I came."

Snarkily mimicking Captain Cardboard's tone to himself, Spike twitches his nose as an odd scent wafts to him. It's female and definitely vampire . . . and it seems to be issuing from _Riley_.

"Well, well, well," Spike murmurs with a low chuckle as he spots the small bunched-up lump in the collar of Riley's turtleneck sweater – no doubt masking a bite mark. "Somebody's been a naughty boy."


	3. Chapter 3: Love Hurts

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Shout-outs to _Mystic4Gohan_ and _sunraye36_ for reviewing! Please keep the reviews coming; let me know if you like how I'm Spuffifying this season! The feelings between the Slayer and our favorite vampire are about to heat up!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter draws heavily on S5:7 "Fool for Love", including both direct and slightly altered quotes. Some content from "Into the Woods" as well.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike dumps Harmony, helps fight off the Lai-ach demons, defends Tara's humanity, and gets invited to her birthday party at the Bronze. He sniffs Sandy – the flirty vampire – on Riley (yes, this plot point has been moved up) and guesses that Soldier-Boy's been letting someone other than Buffy get some. However, he doesn't want to spoil the birthday mood, so he leaves the Bronze and decides to follow Buffy on patrol for the next few weeks . . ._

* * *

Chapter 3: Love Hurts

Sunnydale Cemetery is as quiet tonight as it usually is – where "quiet" means that several freshly spawned vampires are clawing their way out of their graves and skulking about until they come face to face with the Slayer.

"You know, it's probably none of my business," Buffy taunts between jabs, exchanging blows with a particularly nasty-looking vampire sporting a shaggy black mullet., "but I just gotta ask . . . Did you smell this bad when you were alive? If it's a post-mortem thing, then hey, _so_ not your fault, and boy, is my face red . . . But just so you know . . . The fast-growing field of personal grooming's come a long way since you became a vampire."

Punching him backwards with ease, Buffy raises her stake and swings it toward the mullet-ed vampire. But the moment she expects to make contact, he sidesteps, grabs her arm, twists, and uses her own stake to stab her right in the stomach. The stake enters deep, just under her ribs. Gasping in shock, Buffy manages to shove the vampire away and slowly pulls out the stake.

"Aah!" she cries out, letting the bloodied weapon fall through her fingers onto the grass as she holds both hands over her wound.

"You going?" the ugly vampire sneers, advancing on her as she turns to run, stumbling slightly. "But you were having so much fun a minute ago . . ."

He leers and crouches as though to pounce, but with a yell a blur comes crashing down on him, tackling the vampire. His light hair a streak of white in the darkness, Spike flips the hideous vampire several feet farther from Buffy and takes a fighting stance in front of her, bouncing on the balls of his feet like a boxer.

"That's right, oaf! Pick on someone your own size! What? Eh! Get back here, ya sniveling git!" he snarls after the vamp as it vaults over a tombstone and disappears off into the night.

"Guess they don't make Big Bads like they used to, eh?" Spike turns back around to Buffy and sees her sitting on the ground with her hands around her sweater. "Slayer? What happened?"

She lowers her hands slightly, and the sharp scent of blood wafts through Spike's nostrils.

"Oh, God, Buffy . . ." He rushes to her, drops to his knees, and holds her, glancing around in desperation. "Just hang on, luv. Where do you want me to take you. Giles's? Your place? Where's closest? Oh, Buffy . . ."

"Sh-shut up, Spike," Buffy huffs, barely keeping her grip on consciousness. "R-r-riley will . . . c-c-come help m-m-me . . ."

Spike bites down hard on his lip. He still hasn't dared to tell Buffy that her ex-military boyfriend spends most of his recent nighttimes getting suck jobs from two-bit vampire trollops at a seedy flophouse downtown. He's surprised by how quickly Captain Cardboard got addicted to the rush.

"Riley's . . . not in this part of the graveyard, pet," Spike justifies, though why he's making excuses for Soldier Boy at the expense of his own chance for Buffy, he can't imagine. Perhaps it's that he doesn't want to put her in any more pain, got enough to handle at the moment.

"Want . . . R-r-riley . . ." Buffy moans. Then, without warning, she collapses in his arms.

"Buffy!"

Spike shakes her shoulders gently, but she doesn't wake. Eyes wide in panic, he yanks the hem of his black t-shirt out of his belt and rips off a piece about the length of his leg, then bunches the fabric against Buffy's bleeding wound. Keeping one cool hand pressed over her belly, Spike reaches under Buffy's legs, hefts her limp body into his arms, and takes off toward downtown Sunnydale, walking as quickly and smoothly as he can. The moonlit streets are empty of passersby, just a stray cat that yowls and scampers away at the sight of Spike charging toward the Magic Box. Without breaking stride, he kicks in the locked front door and saunters inside, Buffy still slung across his arms, her head lolling against his neck.

"Oi! Watcher! Red!" he shouts into the darkened, empty shop. "Somebody help her!"

Her scent is overpowering, her golden hair splayed all over his shoulder, her hot blood sticky against his torso. He's soaked in her, drowning in her . . .

Holding his breath against the alluring fragrance, Spike swipes an arm over the table, sending books and candles spinning across the floor, then lays Buffy out on her back. He stumbles back, gasping for clean air, but the whole room is already laced with the scent of Buffy's blood, a heady mist, beckoning him to drink, to devour his helpless, beautiful enemy. It would be so easy to bend his lips to her and take his fill. She wouldn't even feel any pain . . .

"C'mon, Buffy, wake up," he pleads, cradling her head in one hand, thumb caressing her cheek. "Please, luv . . ."

He kneads her forehead with a rough, cold kiss, then pushes away from the table before his self-restraint runs out. "Gotta have a first-aid kit somewhere in this bloody shop!" Nearly yanking the cupboard doors off their hinges, Spike digs through the cabinet where Giles keeps his tea, then starts tearing through the shelves underneath the cash register and along the wall behind the counter. "What kind of half-arsed Watcher wouldn't have . . . here!"

Snatching up the white plastic box, Spike hurries back to Buffy's side. He pulls out a gauze square, medical tape, and cotton balls, then rips open a packet of antiseptic wipes with his teeth. Choking back his desire, he gently rolls Buffy's shirt up to just above her ribs and begins cleaning the wound, blotting her blood with the fluffs of cotton.

"You'll be alright, luv," he whispers, noticing with relief that her midsection has nearly stopped bleeding. Thank his lucky stars that accelerated healing powers come with the Slayer package.

"Riley . . ."

Her head thrashes slightly from one side to the other, and one of her hands finds Spike's, holding it tenderly. He grits back tears and starts to withdraw his hand.

"No, pet, it's just me."

"No . . ." Buffy whimpers, still unconscious, clinging to his cool fingers. Working with his other hand, Spike sponges up the rest of the blood and guiltily stashes the stained cotton balls and the bloodied strip of t-shirt in one of his duster pockets before covering Buffy's injury with the gauze and tearing several sections of tape to wrap around her.

"There, luv. All patched up, be right as rain in a day or two."

Buffy smiles in her sleep, refusing to release his hand, and Spike bends toward her and strokes one finger along her jawline.

"Why do you torture me so, Slayer?" he whispers sweetly after a few minutes of tender silence. "Is this my curse, my cup of perpetual torment? To be so close to you, and not have you . . ."

"Anybody in here?"

Breathing hard, Riley comes sprinting through the broken door of the shop. His sleeves are rolled up, and there's a tell-tale bandage in the crook of his elbow. His shocked eyes take in the sight of Buffy out cold on the table, the helter-skelter items littering the floor, and Spike leaning over her, blood on his hands and shirt.

"Well, it's 'bout time," Spike huffs angrily, quickly retracting his hands from Buffy. "Right proper boyfriend you are, Soldier Boy, leaving your damsel in distress to fend for her– hey! Hey!"

Before he's finished speaking, Riley yells in hot rage, charges at him, and grabs a fistful of his blond hair, yanking him roughly away from Buffy.

"Oi! I was defending her, you ponce!" Spike protests as Riley slams him up against a wall, ignoring his outcry. "Where were you, eh? With your sodding vampire whor–"

Riley's fist slams across Spike's jaw with a _crack_! The second punch drives him to the floor, but Spike deftly rolls over and springs to his feet before the commando can land another blow.

"Get out!" Riley roars. "Get out before I kill you!"

"I'd like to see you try," Spike murmurs with a glare, spitting a mouthful of blood on the floor as he backs away towards the shop entrance. Consumed with fury, Riley storms over to the weapons chest in the corner and draws out a stake, but by the time he turns back around, Spike has fled.

He jogs until the Magic Box is out of sight, then stuffs his hands deep in his pockets and trudges back to his crypt, disregarding his bleeding lip and nose. He enters the dark mausoleum, shrugs off his duster, and shuffles over to the sink in the corner. Tugging his ripped t-shirt up over his head, Spike holds the bloodied portion up to his nose and breathes deeply, filling himself with Buffy's scent until his entire body aches for her. Then he drops the shirt in the basin and turns on the tap. He wipes his own blood from his face and takes one long look at his hands before immersing his fingers in the little stream of water and washing their mingled blood off his palms.

* * *

_A/N: "Fool for Love" will continue in the next chapter!_


	4. Chapter 4: A Deadly Dance

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Here's hoping this story is as fun for you all to read as it is for me to write! =) This chapter is **really** long compared to the others. Poor Spikey suffers through so much . . .

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter draws heavily on "Fool for Love", including both direct and slightly altered quotes. Some content from "Into the Woods" as well.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: While out patrolling, Buffy is staked by a hideous, punk 80s vampire. Spike chases away her attacker and carries her to the Magic Box, displaying considerable self-control in not sampling her blood. Just when he's got her patched up, who should arrive but . . . Agent Annoying-One Finn, who throws Spike out of the shop._

* * *

Chapter 4: A Deadly Dance

Spike had forgotten how unnervingly silent his crypt could be without Harmony's incessant yammering. He mindlessly watches TV for most of the day, drifting in and out of sleep in his ratty armchair. His fitful daydreams span the gamut from terrifying to erotic, and each one centers on Buffy, causing him to reawaken drenched in cold sweat and desperate for action and news. _How is she? Where is she? Do her friends – not counting Private Jump-to-conclusions – know where she is? When am I gonna see her again?_

He leaves the crypt sooner than is strictly safe, skirting the shadows until the sun fully sets. But pacing the graveyard provides little relief, and he keeps his senses on sharp alert for Buffy or any of the Scoobies. By the time the nighttime sky has turned an inky navy, he has dusted three lone vampires and is still itching for information on Buffy's condition.

"Hey Riley!"

Xander's voice shatters the near-silence of the cemetery, and Spike ducks behind some foliage, spooked enough to have had a heart attack if his heart wasn't already cold and dead.

"What's the . . . all about?" the whelp's voice continues strangely. Spike peers out from behind his bush and instantly spots Willow, Xander, and Anya, looking clown-like in ridiculously bright clothing, sharing a bag of incredibly loud potato chips. Several paces ahead of them, commando-outfitted Riley stands up and turns around to face the trio.

"It means yell real loud so the vampires who don't know we're coming will have a sporting chance," he huffs.

Spike grins; as much as he can't stand Xander most of the time, the fact that he's managed to irritate Riley puts the whelp in his good graces for once.

"Well, well, well," he murmurs to himself as the four Scoobies discuss tactics and whether or not to split up. "If the peanut gallery is out patrolling, then where is dear Goldilocks . . .?"

He follows the foursome for half an hour until they finally catch sight of the mangy-haired vampire who took a piece out of Buffy. It swaggers between the tombstones like it owns the place, then opens a tomb entrance and disappears inside. Before the door of the mausoleum closes, even Spike can hear the sounds of several raised voices, definitely a nest of rowdy vampires.

"Sounds like a party in there," Xander comments to the others, looking nervous.

"Forget about crashing," Riley sighs with a note of frustration. "There's too many of them."

"Got a plan?" asks Willow, as Spike waits tensely, ready to run should they choose a return route via his hiding place.

"We're leaving," says Riley grumpily. "We'll come back at daybreak when they're asleep and we're better armed. It's okay. We can kill 'em just as dead in the morning."

"My tight pale arse you will," Spike huffs to himself as Riley, trailed by Willow, Xander, and Anya, heads for the edge of the graveyard. "Not if I kill 'em first."

He holds his concealed position until the humans are out of sight, then sprints across the graveyard to his own crypt, swings open the door, and heads for his weapons' trunk. As much as he'd like to charge into the punk vamp's nest with just his fists and fangs, he prefers _not_ getting dusted in his attempt to exact vengeance for Buffy's injury. Since Harmony took his best crossbow when she skedaddled, he sorts through his stakes for the ones with the most aerodynamic grips, testing them in his fist.

Just as he's decided on two choice stakes, without warning Buffy charges into the crypt, seizes him by the back of his collar, and slams him into a column with a _WHAM_!

"Ow! Wait. Not ow. You feeling all right, Slayer?" he recovers, feigning a teasing voice even though he's desperate to know the truth. "That stuff usually hurts."

"Don't even start, Spike."

She swings him around to face her and pushes his back into the column. He glances over her, eyes lingering on that spot on her side where he knows she's still healing.

"What do you want?" he asks with contrived annoyance.

"Slayers. You killed two of them."

Spike's eyes widen warily. After all this time, _now_ she wants payback for those two particular murders in the long wake of carnage that he's left over two continents?

"I did," he replies, not sure what else to say.

Buffy releases his shoulder, takes a step back, and fixes him with a look of fierce determination. "You're gonna show me how."

She crosses her arms and raises an eyebrow, as though expecting him to immediately start the reenactment. Spike continues scrutinizing her with his keen blue eyes.

"Show you?" he asks skeptically.

"Show me. Two Slayers. One in China during the Boxer Rebellion, one in New York. Both got killed by you. Tell the tale . . ." – she pulls a wad of rolled-up money out of her pocket and brandishes it – " . . . you get the cash."

"Right," he muses, drawing his cigarette and lighter from a jeans pocket. "You want to learn all about how I bested the Slayers, and you want to learn fast. All right then: we fought, I won, the end. Pay up."

He's lucky that looks can't stake, because Buffy's expression is downright livid.

"You know that's not what I . . ."

"What did you want, eh?" he interrupts. "A quick demo? Blow-by-blow description you can map out and memorize?" He lets out a snorting laugh and then lights his cig. "It's not about the moves, luv."

"Then what _is_ it about?" she demands irritatedly.

"Why so interested?" Spike teases, smiling between pulls on his cigarette. He glances appreciatively at her torso. "Could it be 'cause some nasty thing got a taste of you?"

"What are you talking about?" she glares, but the hint of defensiveness in her voice assures Spike that she hasn't fully recovered from last night's wound. What's more, she knows he can tell, and that unnerves her.

"Just want to be sure you're up to it, Slayer. Don't want to dance if you can barely stand."

"Don't get excited. I'm fine."

"Right," he pretends to agree. "Skulkin' in a crypt with the creature you loathe, diggin' up past uglies, and nursin' a splinter through your gut. 'Cause you're _fine_."

She peers oddly at him, arms defensively tightening around her middle. "How did you know?"

"Oh, your knight in sodding armor didn't tell you, eh? Bet he took all the bloody credit, too!"

"What are you talking about?"

"What's the point?" Spike sighs, tapping dust from his smoke. "You wouldn't believe me anyhow if I told you. It's my word against your precious White Bread's."

After another few seconds of confused staring, Buffy realizes what his convoluted comments mean. Her astonished look confirm his suspicion: she had no idea that _he_ was the one who'd saved her in the graveyard the previous night, carried her to the Magic Box, and bandaged her injury.

"You . . . you got me out of the cemetery?" There's unspoken gratitude in her question, and for the first time, her eyes note the faint bruise on his chin. "And Riley . . ."

"Shifty bugger thought I was havin' myself a lovely snack," Spike mutters churlishly. He takes a final draw of nicotine, drops the cigarette butt to the floor, and crunches it with the ball of one booted foot. "Well, no one's narrating on an empty stomach, Slayer. If you advance me a bit, I'll order us some drinks and wings at the Bronze, or Willy's if you fancy the seedier vibe."

"You'll what?"

Her jaw drops even more. Spike rolls his eyes and fixes her with that simultaneously charming and teasing tilt of his scarred eyebrow.

"I'm feeling peckish, and you look like you could use a nibble to make up for last night. Gimme twenty bucks up front, and I'll buy us a spot of dinner."

For a long beat, Buffy doesn't move, her eyes locked with Spike's like two gunmen waiting for the other to twitch first. Then, to his slight surprise, she reaches into her back pocket where she stuffed the bills, pulls out two tens, and shoves them at him.

"That's my girl," he grins, pocketing the money.

"I'm not your girl," she huffs. "Were you born this big a pain in the ass?"

"What can I tell you, baby?" he smirks as they walk side-by-side from the crypt into the darkness outside. "I've always been bad . . ."

* * *

This night is glorious, and Spike draws it out to its full extent, sparing no part of his story from the very start – the sissy excuse of a man he was before Drusilla's fatal bite, then the recklessness of his early life after death, his zenith as he brought about the death of the Chinese Slayer in 1900, then his mature years in New York and the murder of Nikki Wood.

All the while he glories, almost drunk with desire at the closeness of the Slayer. They eat together, play a few rounds of pool, share drinks . . . he's never had so much exclusive time with her. He begins taking risks, circling Buffy around the Bronze's pool table, whispering in her ear, finding excuses to momentarily touch her whenever his narration makes it seem legitimate – wrists, waist, throat, hair. His fingertips burn with pleasure each time he succeeds. His chip begins to buzz incessantly, warning him as he skirts the line between taunting the Slayer and truly endangering her. But as he brazenly admits to her: there's death, there's glory, and sod all else, right? So he dances with his beautiful Slayer, relishing the closest thing to a date he expects he'll ever get to have with her.

But the magic has to end eventually. He sees the fear entering Buffy's eyes when he describes how he brutally snapped Nikki's neck, then increasing when he finally gives her the secret, the reason that he always wins, the inevitable death wish that all Slayers share. They're standing close, eye-to-eye in the alley behind the Bronze, Spike nearly panting with excitement, Buffy rigid.

"Here endeth the lesson," he whispers reverently. "I just wonder if you'll like it as much as she did–"

"No," Buffy cuts him off, hints of tears in her green eyes. "This is all – you're wrong."

"Hey," he smirks, "you asked. Sorry if the answer isn't cuddly enough for you–"

She's almost trembling, but still manages to insert a deadly fierceness into her voice. "Get out of my sight, Spike. Now," she orders.

"Ooooh, did I scare you? You're the Slayer. Do somethin' about it. Hit me!"

His voice is almost begging. Unafraid of the murderous look she's throwing at him, he tilts his face to make one cheek a more available target for her fist, leaning closer with each step. "Come on. One good swing. You know you want to."

"I mean it–"

"So do I! Give it to me good, Buffy. Do it!"

"Spike–"

Hearing her whisper his name is what finally snaps his control. He grabs her upper arms, hauls her against him before she has the chance to jerk away, and kisses her firmly, moaning as he makes contact. It's a thousand times better than in his dreams – her warm, pliable mouth forced to obey his wordless demands, her shoulders twisting as she mildly struggles – and yet . . . her lips seem even colder than his, completely unresponsive to his passion.

They break apart with a shared gasp, Buffy's arms still clenched in Spike's hands. She locks her startled eyes on his, trying to read him, to figure out if the kiss was part of the act, the storytelling . . . the dance.

"Spike . . . what the hell are you doing?!"

The single kiss hasn't helped slake the intensity of his craving one bit. He's throbbing for her, tingling with eagerness. _Can't she tell how much I long for her, that I'm aching from top to toe?_

"Come on. I can feel it, Slayer," he pants, barely restraining himself from pulling her into another deep kiss – or pinning her against the nearby wall and letting loose whatever monster inside him takes the reins first. "You know you want to dance . . ."

For one everlasting moment, she seems to give in, tense arms softening, voice dulcet when she finally answers him.

"Say it's true. Say I do want to . . ."

And her hands are on him, giving him hope for the briefest second . . . before her palms shove him backwards brutally, breaking his hold on her arms. He stumbles on his duster coattails and lands on his back and elbows. Buffy stands over him, unruffled, every inch a vampire Slayer.

"It wouldn't be you, Spike. It would never be _you_."

Her tone is laced with disgust, and she pulls the wad of remaining cash from her pocket and scatters it over him.

"You're beneath me."

He starts to sit up, but her words are like a swift blow to the gut. The urgent desire deflates from Spike like a candle being puffed out by an icy breeze, made worse by her use of the exact phrase that wrought his humiliation over a hundred years ago. So . . . she had paid attention to his story all right . . . just enough to know what would break him. She feels nothing for him.

Silently, Buffy turns on her heel and departs the alley, heading for the light of the street. She takes care to round the corner and get out of his sight before she stops to wipe her eyes. Trembling, she covers her mouth with her fingers, stunned by both her own hateful words and by the alarming kiss Spike had bestowed on her. She'd kissed Riley more times than she could count, but his kisses had never left her feeling so . . . flustered, like her world had shifted to an uncomfortable new axis, nothing familiar or predictable. She couldn't compare it to Angel's kisses either; Angel had always been afraid, thinking that he'd hurt her or worse, that he'd let himself slip back to that brink of perfect happiness and unleash the eager devil inside him. If there was anything about Spike that she openly admired, it was his utter fearlessness, a literal devil-may-care attitude.

_Spike kissed me, _she repeats in her head, still struggling to believe it. _Spike! So . . . was it part of the game or not? Just a tease, or did he mean something by it? And if he did, then . . . what?_

Shivering and unable to come up with any answers, Buffy heads home, jogging as quickly as her slightly aching side will allow.

* * *

Utterly shattered, Spike stares after Buffy's retreating figure until she disappears, then ashamedly turns away and starts scooping up the crumpled bills, emotion choking him. So that's how he's repaid? Spends hours spilling his figurative soul to her, and she as good as spits on him, tosses him the bills like he's a crippled beggar or a doxy she's grown bored of?

Before he's gathered up even half of the bills, the money holds no interest for him. Though he's biting his lip to fight them, tears form in his eyes. _How high the mighty have fallen_ . . .

He will not endure it, won't stand for the little missy throwing him aside like a used plaything. He's a master vampire, the scourge of Europe, the slayer of Slayers! Blinking the salt water away, Spike looks back toward the street, his eyes following Buffy's path of departure with humiliated, murderous rage.

"Beneath me . . . " he repeats in a snarl. "If I hadn't saved her sorry neck she'd be six bloody feet beneath me!"

Rocketing to his feet, he takes off toward the cemetery, blood pounding in his ears as he lets his demon surface, yellow eyes glinting in the night. He's all predator now, sniffing the graveyard air until he finds the trail of the 80s-punk vampire, instantly recognizable because it's entwined with the scent of Buffy's blood.

Stalking through the familiar landscape, he follows the scent back to the nest and pries open the tomb door with his foot. The vamps below are too busy gloating to hear the soft creak of stone as Spike slips inside. Chuckling gruffly, the vamp with Val-Halen hair holds up the bloody stake to show the four others.

"Killed with her own weapon. They out to put this in a museum."

"Know what they put in museums, mate?"

Spike leaps from the stairs, leather swishing as he lands with lion-like softness on the ground. The guffawing vamps fall silent instantly and turn to him in total surprise. "Mostly dead things," he growls, fixing the leader with his coldest William-the-Bloody snarl, the face of a killer.

The mangy vamp laughs at the sight of this unarmed challenger and then rushes, but his attack is over in an instant. Roaring, Spike grabs the charging vamp's wrist, drives it backwards into its knobby face, then yanks the stake out of its grip and stabs it through the chest. The hairy vamp explodes into dust, and the four others look nervously at each other, wondering if they're next.

Brushing off his coat, Spike glares around and points the bloody stake into the yellow eyes of the minions.

"Any one of you wankers go anywhere near the Slayer, you'll get the same. A'right?"

"You're _with_ the Slayer?" one of the vampires demands in utter confusion. He's the burliest of the remaining demons, probably bordering on three hundred pounds.

"That's right."

"So . . . you don't want a gang? I mean . . ." the spokesman vamp shrugs, looking around at the others, "Pete was sort-of our boss, but since you bested him, I guess we could chum up with you if –"

"You bloody well will not," Spike snorts. "You knuckleheads would only slow me down. I've tried the 'surrounded by idiots' routine too many times."

Clearly insulted, the mouthpiece vamp stands to his full height, towering almost a foot over Spike. The other three spread out, trying to surround him.

"And what makes you so much better than us? You don't look so tough. Think you're the Big Bad, do ya?"

"Well, actually . . ."

_Wham_! From behind him, something socks into his kidney, shoving him into his knees on the crypt floor. Before he can regain his footing, the knee of the heavyweight vamp uppercuts him, clamping his mouth shut with a painful _snap_! Rough hands seize hold of his arms so that the burly vamp has free access to rain blows into his torso, cracking his ribs. Spike wrests one arm out of its leather sleeve and wallops the large vamp in the solar plexus, but the three others yank him down, sinking punches into every inch of Spike they can reach.

Snarling, he kicks off the ground, does a full spin over them, and pushes all four into a tangle of pasty limbs away from the door. At that instant Riley appears at the top of the stairs, armed with nothing but an attitude and a hand grenade. The vamps take in the newcomer and are dumb enough to just stare, waiting to see if he's after them or Spike.

His face completely emotionless, Riley rushes down, seizes Spike by the neck and shoves him in the direction of the exit, then pulls the pin, and drops the grenade in the midst of the four astonished vampires. With the soldier on his tail, Spike scrambles from the occupied crypt and runs between tombstones until he hears the _boom_ of the nest exploding. He slows to a walk, then leans over, gasping, feeling two or three broken ribs jabbing his sides.

"Never thought I'd be glad to see _you_, Commando," Spike laughs, licking blood off his cracked lip as he resumes his human face. "A'preciate the rescue, an' I know it didn't look it, but I had everything under contr–"

_POW_! Riley's fist comes slamming across Spike's nose with a _crunch_ and a splatter of blood. Completely unprepared, he falls flat on his back, his duster slipping off his other shoulder.

"Eh! What the hell–?"

"What were you doing in there?!" Riley roars. He seizes Spike by the throat and plows a fist into his pale cheek. Pain sears over the vampire's face like lightning as his left cheekbone cracks. "Answer me, demon! You were in league with them, weren't you?! You paid them to hurt Buffy for you!"

"You're off your rocker," Spike laughs roughly, cupping his hurt face with one hand. "Didn'tcha see 'em gang up on me?"

"Then what were you doing?!"

"Avenging Buffy, you poofter!"

"That wasn't your place! It was _mine_! _MINE_!"

Riley hurls him back to the ground and then digs a knee into Spike's chest, forcing the breath out of his lungs with a tense grunt.

"Early bird, mate," Spike sneers up at the human, each tense word causing his dislodged facial bones to grate across each other like poorly fitting gears. "I'm just . . . picking up . . . your loose ends. Pretty soon Buffy'll . . . be comin' to _me_ when . . . she gets an itch she can't–"

Riley yells and drives his fist into Spike's cheek again. He stifles a cry of pain, itching to fight back but knowing any retaliation would just earn him a paralyzing migraine and leave him fully at Riley's mercy.

"Buffy is _my_ girl!" Riley bellows, throwing more punches. Spike hears the _crack_ of another rib, but whatever new pain it induces is so blurred with all the rest that he barely winces.

"Yeah," he gasps, his face searing. "But that's . . . not your problem. You're never . . . going to be able to . . . hold onto her. Girl needs . . . monster in her man . . ."

"Shut up!"

He pummels Spike, holding nothing back. Spike gives up on offering resistance, knowing that the angry boy's just going to keep going until his strength runs out, hell-bent on killing him. Each punch by itself is cake compared to one of Buffy's, but the incessant, merciless beating – so soon after that of the four lackey vampires – is more than he's had to bear since his treatment at the hands of Angelus. His vision starts going hazy, but he clings tooth-and-nail to consciousness, knowing that there's nothing to stop Riley from staking him the moment he blacks out completely. As long as he's awake, he can find the strength to save himself. Maybe, if he's lucky, Soldier Boy will beat a hole clean through his skull and damage the chip . . . and then . . . then he'll be . . . sorry . . .

"Riley?" says a nervous voice some distance away. "Is that S-s-spike?"

"Stay out of this, Tara!"

The second of pause as Riley shouts at the witch gives Spike a much needed moment to recover. He finds Riley's knee on his chest and shoves, earning only the smallest twinge from the chip as he shifts Riley's balance and makes him fall on the grass to his left.

"Spike?"

"Tara . . ." Spike moans, rolling over onto his stomach and looking up through his swollen lids toward the sound of her voice. He can't see her, but from her horrified gasp he knows she got a good view of his brutalized face.

"Riley, d-d-don't!" she cries out as the boy's rough grip on his shoulder flips Spike back around to face him again. He glares at Riley through blackened eyes, wishing he could drain him dry. With both hands, Riley yanks him up off the ground by the collar of his duster and growls into his face.

"You think I don't know what's going on with you, Spike? Stay away from her, or we'll do this for real next time."

Spike tries to retort but just gags, his mouth chock-full of his own blood. Dropping him onto the grass again, Riley storms away, giving Tara a wide berth. Spike realizes the direction Captain Cardboard is headed in – the dilapidated flat for vampire junkies – and starts laughing darkly until he chokes on the regurgitated blood in his throat.

"S-s-s-spike?" she whispers, eyeing him nervously. He knows the tremble in her voice is partly out of sympathy and partly due to the lack of confidence that always seems to consume Tara when she's not in Willow's presence.

"Still . . . kickin', luv," he winces. "Lucky . . . you came along."

"L-l-looked like he was gonna b-b-beat you to death."

"Already dead," Spike murmurs, slowly rotating until he's on his hands and knees. "But thanks. Call in . . . a favor, anytime."

He feels her watching him as he unsteadily gets to his feet, a hand over one side of his bruised ribcage.

"He was m-mad about something to d-do with Buffy?" she guesses, and when Spike gives a shaky nod, she takes another step toward him. "You . . . you l-l-like Buffy, don't you, Spike?"

He gazes nervously at her, ready to give denials and excuses, but the knowing look in her eyes tells him it would be useless, so instead he just mutters, "When'd you catch on?"

"I think it was at my party. You n-never would have given me such a n-nice present if you didn't want Buffy to n-notice."

"Aw, that in't true, Glinda," Spike insists, embarrassed that she'd come to that conclusion, however true it might be. "You've always treated me decent. You an' Joyce an' Dawnie."

"You _are_ decent, Spike," she replies, an angel of kindness. "Not m-many vampires would have been able to cope with what the Initiative d-did to you, but you've changed, used your strength for good."

"Yeah," Spike shrugs, flinching at the aches that shear across his body. "With great power comes great pain-in-the-arse . . ."

"Do you, um, n-need any help?" Tara asks gently. "I could asks Willow if she knows any healing spells that w-work on vampires."

"Naw, but thanks for the offer. Means a lot. Get'cha self home now, pet. Hear stories of demons roamin' these streets."

He winks, but regrets it when his broken cheekbone screams in protest at being stretched. Once he's assured that Tara headed safely in the direction of her dorm building, he picks his duster off the ground, shakes bits of grass from it, and pulls it on, limping towards Revello Drive.

* * *

Her world is imploding.

Trembling, Buffy steps shakily across the back porch and sinks onto one of the steps, feeling like all the life is draining out of her. _Mom . . . hospital . . . observation . . . C.A.T. scan_ . . .

The sobs bubble up out of her lungs, and she buries her face in her knees, struggling to stay quiet so that her cries can't be heard by the residents of the house.

Thirty feet away, Spike walks unevenly into the back of the Summers' lawn, one arm supporting his beaten ribs. She hears the grass crackling beneath his feet and looks up. Her face is wet with tears, her lips trembling, her arms holding herself together.

"What is it now?" she demands breathily.

There's coldness in her tone, but not enough to mask how choked up she is. Spike stands frozen, vastly different responses skimming to the surface of his brain. _I staked the vamp who hurt you, did it for you, baby. – If you're wondering why I look like I got my face kicked in, ask your precious Soldier Boy. – Buffy, I love you and it's killing me_ . . .

"What's wrong?" is what finally escapes his lips. He wonders if the tender expression he's trying to convey is lost due to all the bruises and cuts he's sporting.

"I don't want to talk about it," Buffy sniffs.

The pain behind her eyes is as excruciating as the injuries racking his body.

"Is there something I can do?" he asks sincerely, but all she does is turn her face to the side, tears leaking silently down her face.

Doing his best to subdue his limp, Spike approaches the porch and sits on the step beside Buffy. He waits, and when she doesn't recoil, he reaches out to her, tenderly patting her on the back of her left shoulder, attempting to comfort her. For a moment, she ignores him, and he starts to withdraw his hand, feeling useless.

Then, very slowly, Buffy leans over and puts her head on Spike's shoulder, giving in to her gentle sobs.

* * *

**A/N:** Hope you like the moment of Tara/Spike friendship.

Though I think the actual ending of "Fool for Love" is as near-perfect as it gets, the progression of Buffy and Spike's relationship in this AU convinced me that taking it a teensy bit further would work, especially considering what will happen in the next scene . . . *grins gleefully* . . .

My unspoken goal with this chapter was to wring as many emotions out of you dear readers as I possibly could. Did it work? If you think it was too gory, tell me and I'll bump the rating up to M.


	5. Chapter 5: The Man in the Monster

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: I love all the feedback you have given me! Thanks bunches! Sorry for the lack of updates. Exam week is chasing me around like Faith wielding a huge knife! Hopefully this chapter will make up for it!

**Obligatory warning: A whole bucket of limes in this chapter!** ;)

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter takes place between "Fool for Love" and "Shadow", and contains slightly altered quotes from "Out of My Mind", "Once More with Feeling", and "Seeing Red". Don't even try to guess. ;)

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike has had a busy night. He followed the Scoobies to the punk vamp's nest, danced the night away with Buffy, planted a smooch on her, got metaphorically burned, staked the mangy Slayer-staker, got beaten senseless by Captain Cardboard and saved by Tara, and finally showed up on Buffy's back-doorstep and comforted her while she cries._

* * *

Chapter 5: The Man in the Monster

Buffy's weeping finally peters out and she falls asleep sitting on the back porch, head still resting on the leather-clad shoulder of her former enemy. A chill night breeze rustles through the neighborhood, and Spike slips off his duster – trying to move as little as possible so he doesn't wake her – and wraps the coat around Buffy, adding a layer over her black, knitted jacket. Then he scoots closer to her until their legs barely touch, and his right arm gently encircles her shoulders.

He supports her while she slumbers, just soaking in the nearness of her body and the rich scent of her, potent enough to keep him from nodding off himself. The aches in his battered ribs and face are endurable now. Minutes and hours slip by. Birds begin twittering in the trees around the house, and Spike looks up from his sensory daze to see the eastern horizon turning a vibrant coral color.

"Buffy?" he whispers, gently tucking her hair behind one ear. She moans softly in her sleep and leans into him, running one hand up his chest. Between the fresh stabs of pain in his ribs and the jolt of pleasure at her touch, Spike nearly falls down the rest of the porch steps. After how she'd crushed him earlier last night, sneeringly told he that he was _beneath_ her, this accidental intimacy is too much to bear.

"Buffy, luv, please wake up."

Her head moves slightly, rubbing against his collarbone, the perfume of her hair drowning out everything else in his mind. There's only now, this moment, the Slayer sleeping willingly in his arms. Eyes closing, he lets his head loll back in ecstasy, hugging her a little tighter to his chest.

The cold of his shirt against her face is what seems to awaken her at last.

"Mmm . . . Spike?"

Her eyes open halfway and she sits up, but her hand remains pressed over his heart. She looks at his bloodied face by the approaching light of dawn, and her green eyes fill with pity as she quickly realizes how many blows to the head he must have suffered.

"Yeah, it's me," Spike answers sheepishly, noticing that she hasn't pushed his arm off her shoulders, that the sides of their thighs are still touching. _To be so close to her, and not have her_ . . . "Sun's comin' up. Do you mind if I . . . step inside? Don't think I can make it back to my crypt before daybreak."

"Oh . . . no, I don't mind. When . . . when did I fall asleep?" she asks as they stand up, his duster so long on her short frame that it brushes the porch deck.

"Not quite sure, couple hours." Spike gives an unintentional shrug and winces sharply at the knife-like pain that shoots through his ribs. Buffy notices the cringe and eyes him curiously.

"Spike?"

"It's nothin'," he answers, stiffly opening the back door and following her into the house.

"Nothing sure looks like something." She eyes his heavily bruised cheek by the ceiling lights in the kitchen, wondering who or what could have done that much damage in the few short hours between their interaction at the Bronze and his arrival at her doorstep. "What happened to you?"

"Nothin'."

"Spike."

The gentle way she speaks his name is both soothing and agonizing, and he turns his back on her, wandering over to the fridge.

"Guess it's too much to hope you'd have any hemoglobin-flavored pick-me-ups, eh?" he mumbles sullenly, glancing through the refrigerator shelves for the slight possibility of blood bags. "Spare a cup of cocoa instead, p'haps?"

"Dang it, Spike, what are you hiding from me?" she demands, raising her voice, then looks up at the ceiling anxiously, afraid her shout has woken her mom or Dawn. Spike lifts his hands to shoulder height, play-acting his surrender.

"Alright, take it easy, Slayer. Just . . ." he hesitates, his cheek smarting with every word. Buffy glares impatiently, so he struggles through the pain. "I had a bit of a vendetta last night over a . . . certain lady friend of mine. Nest of vamps, I dusted the leader, the rest fancied themselves _my_ new minions, and when I set them straight, told 'em to sod off, they jumped me. Oh, and then, befittin' my luck, a certain other bloke got all hot an' bothered over this same lady, and we had a little falling-out, one involvin' him punchin' me and me wishin' I could punch him without getting a sodding migraine . . ."

"Riley did that . . .?"

Buffy gazes at him in wide-eyed astonishment, looking from the welts on his face, to a purple bruise forming on his bicep just under his sleeve, to the slightly hunched way he's standing, clearly favoring his ribs. Spike's mouth clamps shut, the throbbing from his eyebrows to jaw almost unbearable.

"You . . . you staked the vampire who hurt me . . . and Riley hit you because _he_ wanted to do it, and you'd gotten there first?" Buffy surmises, completely stunned._ It's been Spike, only Spike . . . he protected me in the cemetery that night, then got me to safety, then dusted the vamp . . . he avenged me . . . _Spike_, not Riley . . . where _was_ Riley all that time?_

To spare himself the pain of speaking, Spike just nods, rubbing his cold hand over his cheek, black nails picking at a cut under his eye.

"Quit that," Buffy orders, suddenly throwing his duster on the island, stomping over to the sink, and wetting a washcloth. "Sit down."

"What?"

"You heard me."

She points at a barstool at the kitchen island, and Spike reluctantly shuffles over and perches on it, watching her warily. When she raises the cloth and scrapes at the dried blood, he hisses sharply at the contact to his broken cheekbone, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Spike, I'm sorry . . ."

"Don't," he mutters tersely, turning his head so his left cheek's out of her sight, bracing himself against a flood of overwhelming emotion. It'd be the final straw in the destruction of his dignity if he broke down crying in front of her. "I know I disgust you, Slayer, you made that clear enough last night. No need to show kindness to a creature like me."

Her face determinedly stoic, Buffy puts two fingers to his chin, turns his face back towards hers, and gently sponges the washcloth against his numerous cuts, wiping the blood from his forehead and temples, then off his neck. Spike watches her, squinting through swollen eyelids.

"You . . . don't have to do this, Buffy. You're not beholden to me for staking that blighter."

"Well, you didn't deserve for Riley to treat you this way. I _want_ to do this."

When his face is finally clear of the layer of caked blood, the damage to his left cheek is fully evident, bruises spider-webbing out from the mass of bluish-purple in the center, directly over his fractured cheekbone. Buffy's eyes well up, aghast at Riley's brutality.

"Spike . . ."

"I'll heal, Slayer," he mutters, reluctant to look at her for fear that confessions will come bubbling out of him and lay his heart out on the island countertop like a raw chicken breast, ready to be chopped into messes. "Be back to your friendly, neighborhood nocturnal pretty-boy in no time."

Swallowing a compassionate sniffle, Buffy re-moistens the washcloth, returns to Spike's side, and shoves his t-shirt sleeve up to his shoulder to clean the knuckle-marks on his arm.

"How many ribs did he break?" she asks, almost afraid of the answer.

"Haven't had time to count. A' least six, I reckon, from the way it pinches when I breathe."

She shudders, wondering how she will bear letting Riley touch her after displaying such cruelty against someone who couldn't lift a hand in self-defense.

"Would . . . would blood help you heal faster? I mean . . . I could . . ."

At her soft words, Spike looks up so quickly that his neck cricks. She's already reaching for one of her own sleeves, a tender look in her tear-brimmed eyes. He watches the blood pumping in the crook of her elbow, calling to him lustily, and bites down hard on his tongue so he doesn't run it over his split lips and taste her scent in the air.

"Buffy . . . you think I'd take a nip at you after gettin' myself thrashed to a sodding pulp for protectin' you?!" he whispers harshly, restraining his voice for the sake of the sleepers upstairs. "You're . . . you're balmy, Slayer! I'd rather Soldier Boy had offed me! Couldn't drink you anyhow, what with the pacifier up my noggin, care of your boyfriend's science mates. Plus, I'd prol'ly rip my face apart if I vamped just now."

"Sorry, I . . . I'm not thinking clearly," she murmurs ashamedly, puling her coat sleeve back down to her wrist. "My mom . . ."

Spike sits up straighter despite his smarting sides, his eyes full of kindness as he realizes what she's about to admit to him – the inner turmoil that she has to hide in front of everyone else: Dawn, Giles, the Scoobies . . . especially Riley. But for him, she can be herself, hide nothing.

She anxiously wrings the washcloth in her fingers, eyes fixed on the center of his chest.

"Can I . . . do you mind if . . .?"

One of her hands travels to the hem of his black t-shirt just above his belt. He suppresses a groan of longing and attempts to keep his voice casual, praying she doesn't look down at his jeans.

"Help yourself, luv. Whatever makes you happy. So . . . your mum," he prompts, trying not to dwell on her hand gently tugging on the black fabric at his waist, slowly rolling up his shirt to bare his torso.

"My . . . my mom's . . . getting a C.A.T. scan today."

"Cripes, Buffy . . . I'm so sorry. Lil' Bit know yet?"

"No . . . and I have no idea how I can tell her."

"Wish there was something I could do."

"It's worse. Dawn . . . she isn't really my s-sister," Buffy chokes back tears, pausing to ball up some of his t-shirt in her fists. "Sh-she was _sent_ to me, a _key_ from another dimension, not even human. I have to protect her from that superwoman who attacked me at the factory. And Dawn doesn't know she isn't my . . . oh my God, Spike!"

She gasps faintly right as she hikes his shirt up to his underarms and gets a clear view of his injuries. The bruises that speckle his chest and abdomen are a deep wine color, jarring against the white of his marble skin.

"That monster . . ." she gulps, and Spike can tell with a rush of thankfulness that she doesn't mean _him_. Her fingertips brush lightly across the long swollen line of a rib, then she lays her hand flat against a dark purple patch of internal bleeding with just the slightest pressure.

"Ohhh . . . dear God, Slayer . . ." His voice is ragged, a gasp of pleasure, eyes rolling up before he can stop himself.

"Does . . . does it hurt?"

"Like hell 'till you touched . . . Ohhh . . ." he moans, gripping the countertop behind him as she gradually slides her hand down his ribcage. "Please . . ."

Her hand stills, resting against the darkest blotch, the warmth agonizingly wonderful. He drinks it in through his pores, every cold cell of his body craving her touch.

Somewhere upstairs, an alarm clock begins to chirp. Buffy looks up at her mom's room, her eyes still wet and her chin trembling as she fights her grief and fear. Spike drops his gaze, noticing that she hasn't taken her warm hand off his ribs.

"I should go, luv, get out of your hair. I think I left an old tarp blanket here one time. I'll just have a poke down in your basement, see if I can find . . ."

Her soft lips cover his without warning, chaste and tender, intimating a deeper connection than words could sufficiently express. He starts, jerks his head backwards, and stares at her through his puffed and bruised lids.

"What . . . what's that for, luv?"

"I . . . I don't know . . . I'm sorry, Spike, I shouldn't have . . ."

"Buffy . . ."

He raises a hand and detangles her hair from where it's stuck to the tears on her face.

"Slayer, if that was just . . . out of pity for me, nothing more . . . God help me, I'll put a stake through my heart faster than . . ."

She leans in again, kissing him full on the mouth, catching his parted lips and running her tongue over the cracks and cuts. Her other palm forms a mold against his damaged cheek, and he can't stop himself from sighing longingly against the heat of her hand, eyes drifting closed, wishing this moment could last. His hands clutch around her, fisting in the scratchy wool of her black coat between her shoulder blades, then traveling lower, tightening around her lower back until every curve of her body is held upright against his.

"Mmm . . . no, this . . . this isn't . . . I shouldn't . . ." she murmurs even while one of her hands slips up and grips his white-blond hair hard, preventing him from pulling his face away even if he had wanted to. But she can't bring herself to think of Riley, or how he would react if he found out. She needs Spike, her Spike, only Spike . . .

Her tugging on his hair is like a search warrant, giving him permission to touch _her_ hair, winding his fingers up through her silken waves.

"I . . . love . . . you," he moans, kissing from her temple down to her neck, the pain in his cheek utterly ignored in the rush of arousal. "You're all I bloody think about . . . dream about. You're in my gut, my throat . . . I'm drowning in you, Summers. I'm drowning in you."

Losing herself in his words, Buffy arches her neck against his mouth and gasps at the feeling of his cool tongue in the hollow of her throat.

"So, you . . . never _really_ liked me anyway, huh?" she asks raggedly, reaching inside his shirt and cupping his cool shoulder blades in her palms, holding him tight against her.

"Little white lie, baby . . . God, I love you . . . Buffy, I love you so much."

He lifts her up into his lap, and his lips follow the curve of her collarbone to the dip in the v-neck of her silken blouse. She throws her head back, bowing longingly into him, digging her hips down until he moans.

"Buffy, please . . ."

"Yes, Spike, yes . . ."

She eagerly pushes him back off the stool and onto the countertop of the island, ignoring the bangs and clatters as kitchenware falls to the floor. Tugging off her coat, she jumps up onto the counter and straddles him, knocking down even more cutlery.

"Arrgh . . . easy, luv," he groans deeply. "Right on the six busted ribs . . ."

But then her hot, tiny hands are back on his chest, dancing, massaging the pain away, and her lips are winding across his ribs like a glorious match being held against his flesh until he's ready to weep from the torturing pleasure.

"Oh, Buffy . . . ohhh, luv . . ."

Her hand seizes him by the very roots of his hair as her mouth finds his again, her whole body covering him like burning sunlight. His limbs are thrashing, bucking beneath her, aching to possess her . . .

"Buffy?" says Dawn's voice, her footprints clomping down the stairs. "You up?"

Buffy jerks her head back – breaking their kiss with a _pop_ – then swings her leg over Spike and slips down off the counter, rushing to straighten her blouse. Spike sits up with a restrained groan and yanks his shirt down to cover his stomach just as Dawn rounds the corner. The teenager looks between them, her eyes widening in astonishment at their flustered faces and rumpled clothes.

"Uh, morning, Niblet," says Spike brightly, smoothing back his crinkled hair.

"We were just . . ." Buffy stammers lamely.

"Buffy was just . . ."

"No! I'm totally not here!" Dawn giggles, clapping her hands together and literally hopping up and down in place. "You guys do whatever you want! I'll watch TV really loud, in the basement, where I can't hear anything! Ahh! I love you guys!"

"Dawn!" Buffy admonishes, her face cherry red. "You . . . you can't watch TV! It's time for school!"

"It's Saturday, you dope! I'm a free woman! Uh, Spike . . . why do you look like you got run over like a platoon of trucks?"

"Err . . ." he glances at Buffy, a flush spreading across his pale cheeks. "I, err . . . had a bit of a row with . . . some nasty demon types. Very brawny buggers. Stood my ground valiantly, but, when you're unarmed and outnumbered ten to one . . ."

Dawn scoffs, eyes sweeping the ceiling. "Uh-huh, sure. Gotta say, Buffy was never that rough with Riley."

"_I_ didn't do that to him!" Buffy squeals in protest while Spike starts laughing then groaning when it jars his ribs. "I didn't do _anything_ to him!"

"Whatever!" Dawn retorts impishly, scrambling back up the stairs before Buffy can charge at her.

"Grrr! She drives me crazy," Buffy hisses, crouching to pick up the bits of a broken ceramic mug off the floor. "And no helping," she points at him when he bends over to grab a fallen bottle-opener and hisses sharply, ribs constricting.

"If you insist, pet. I, um, s'pect you want me to clear out now, eh?"

She nervously gathers up a few more fallen items, not sure how to broach her request. "Spike, I'm . . . please don't tell anyone . . ."

"Not _me_ you need worry 'bout, Goldilocks. Got no friends to tell. You'll have a lot harder time muzzling lil' sis. I'll just rustle up that blanket from downstairs and be on my way."

Buffy sets the broken mug and some spatulas beside the sink, guiltily reluctant to let Spike leave.

"Thank you, Spike, for listening," she says sincerely, keeping her back to him. "It's . . . it's nice, confiding in someone about stuff, not having to be Tough Buff all the time."

"Honored, luv, truly. Come 'round for a chat anytime."

"I don't think I can do that . . . because of . . . us."

"Us? Didn't know there was an _us_."

He saunters toward her around the island, sapphire eyes searching hers. Buffy flounders.

"Well . . . there is now, I think. I don't really know . . ."

"I love you, Summers," he interrupts firmly, sending her stomach into renewed flutters. "Figured it out right after I tried to have that military doc cut my chip out. I sent Harmony packing weeks ago, couldn't stand the sight nor sound of her, not that I ever did. I'm yours 'till I'm dust. So, that's my half of the _us_. What do _you_ want out of _us_, then?"

She can only stare into his earnest, bruised face, her lips shaking hesitantly. _I want you, Spike. I want you to stand by me and help me face my fears. I want you to hold me at night and listen to all my horrible secrets and tell me everything's gonna be okay. I want you to have a soul, so that I can love you back . . ._

"I . . . I don't know what I want, Spike," she murmurs, ashamed of her thoughts.

He sighs sadly, stroking one finger down the length of her arm. "The day you suss out what you do want, there'll probably be a parade. Seventy six bloody trombones."

She lifts her eyes back up to his, hoping her body will stop responding so strongly, quit yelling at her to haul him back to the countertop and get right back to business. He turns and strolls away, reaching for the basement doorknob, but she calls after him, suddenly remembering.

"I'm . . . I'm sorry I said you were beneath me, Spike. That was cruel."

"Bloody right, it was cruel," he whispers, stung, but then he half-smiles, favoring his sore cheek. "Ruddy true, though. I _was_ beneath you, Slayer. And you know . . . I loved every second of it."

Winking, he opens the door to the basement and disappears down the stairs, leaving Buffy standing there in open-mouthed incredulity, the fear of her mother's test momentarily fleeing her mind.


	6. Chapter 6: Secrets

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: My final exams make Angelus seem as nice as Clem. :'(

Couple random things: I changed the genre to Hurt/Comfort and Romance, since the story has meandered in that direction. To stay true to the characters, the Spuffy fun in the last chapter has to backpedal a bit. I know, I know. Fret not, more Spuffy smoochies will occur soon enough. ;)

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter draws on "Shadow", "Crush", and a tiny bit from "Intervention".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Well, things heated up quickly for a certain grieving Slayer and a certain bruised up vampire. But now Buffy has to rush Joyce off to the hospital for her C.A.T. scan, and Spike is left hiding in the Summers basement. And when Riley's not thrashing Spike, he's secretly prostituting out his blood at a vampire dump, but only Spike knows about that._

* * *

Chapter 6: Secrets

As she walks across the hospital waiting room and hands her little sister a soda, Buffy can't stop thinking about Spike. She'd never really considered how a vampire's undead body would react to being beaten up, since the vampires she fights are dusted long before they have time to bruise. Sure, she'd made his nose bleed plenty of times, but that was nothing compared to how he'd looked this morning, beaten to within an inch of his unlife. The violet marks as the blood pooled beneath his ivory skin, the vicious gashes where Riley's pounding fists had ripped his face apart, his angular cheekbone shattered and reddish-purple . . . the coppery taste of his icy lips . . . _No! Bad thoughts! Do not think about Spike's lips!_

"What's a CAT scan , exactly?" Dawn asks in a hollow voice.

"What?" Buffy looks over at her, distracted. "I . . . I'm not sure. An X-ray, I guess."

"But where'd they get 'CAT' scan from?" she continues, fidgeting. "I mean, did they test it on cats, or does the machine sort-of look like a cat?"

"Dawn . . ." begins Buffy, but the look in her sister's brown eyes reflects her own fear. Instead of insisting for her to be quiet, Buffy drapes her arm around Dawn's shoulders and sips her soda. The silence scares them both, so Buffy broaches the topic she'd been unable to bring up while their mom was in the car with them.

"Dawnie?"

"Hmm?"

"I know what you think you saw, but you have to believe me when I said nothing happened with Spike. You _do_ believe me, right?" Buffy asks tentatively.

"If you say so," the teenager grins wickedly. "Just kissing and groping . . ."

"There was no groping!"

"So there really _was_ kissing?"

"Dawnie, please, this is not a joke. It . . . it was an accident. He . . . he was just . . . _there_. I needed someone to talk to about Mom being sick, and he . . . he listened. It was nice."

"Plus he was covered in sexy wounds . . ."

"Dawn!"

"I won't tell Riley, promise! Sacred Summers sisters promise!"

"Dawn, if Summers girls were good at keeping secrets, you wouldn't even know that I'm the Slayer. Last night . . . I was just really fragile about Mom, and I kinda . . . didn't think about what I was doing. But I don't have any feelings for Spike. It will never happen again. I'm repressing it from my memory as we speak."

"Sure, ya are," Dawn smirks.

They wait, listening to a nearby conversation as Ben and another intern discuss the increase in mental patients over the last two months. Buffy takes another sip of soda, the cool fluid reminding her of cold, malleable lips, her tongue exploring his . . . Shuddering, she sets the offensive soda can down on the table next to her chair.

"Spike's cooler than Riley, anyhow," Dawn shrugs after another few silent moments. "At least _he_ doesn't treat me like some dumb kid."

"Spike is not cool, Dawn. He's a killer. He's dangerous."

"Uh-huh. Dangerous at what, kissing?"

"He's a _vampire_."

"So? You dated Angel for, like, three years."

"Angel was different. He has a soul."

"Spike has a chip. Same diff."

"It is _not_ the same at all," Buffy insists. "Now, we're going to drop this conversation and not discuss it again. Are we clear?"

"Fine. Clear," Dawn huffs reluctantly, wriggling deeper into her chair.

"Buffy Summers?"

It's Ben, waving at her from the receptionist's desk and holding out the phone. "You've got a call from a Rupert Giles."

"Stay here," Buffy murmurs to Dawn as she springs up out of her seat and hurries to take the phone from Ben. "Giles?"

"Buffy, I called as soon as I found out. How is your mother?"

"Uh . . . she's having her test done right now. I'm not sure when . . . wait, how did you find out I was at the hospital? I didn't think to call anyone."

"Um . . . this may sound rather strange," replies Giles. Buffy hears a distinct squeak that is undoubtedly the lenses of her Watcher's glasses being scrubbed clean. "Well, to be perfectly honest . . . I received a telephone call . . . from Spike."

"_Spike_ called you?"

"Yes, I'm as astonished as you are. He called from your home, no less."

_He's still at my house? Did he not find the blanket? What _else_ had he told Giles?_

"Um . . . so what'd he say?"

"Only that he'd happened to drop by this morning right as you were leaving for the hospital. He, um . . . told me the nature of Joyce's test."

"Bad of the real life, non-Slayer kind," Buffy sighs into the mouthpiece, drumming her fingers on the wall. "Anything else?"

"No, Spike was succinct and boorish, as usual. He even had the nerve to hang up on me."

Buffy smiles, imagining the gleeful expression Spike must have worn when he'd ended the call. Though she'd been confident in his promise of secrecy, she's overwhelmingly thankful to hear that Giles remains ignorant of her vampire-kissing mishap.

As she's pondering, Buffy hears her friends' voices arguing in the background of the Magic Box. The loudest is Xander, who says animatedly, "Yep, Captain America blowed it up real good. All by his lone wolf lonesome."

"What did Xander just say?" Buffy asks Giles. "What blew up?"

"Nothing, just a slight incident during last night's patrol. No one was harmed. We're continuing to research your mystery woman, but so far our efforts have been fruitless."

"Well, thanks for trying. If any leads come my way, I'll holler at'cha first thing."

"Likewise. For now, focus on your mother and Dawn, Buffy. Your priorities lie there today."

"M'kay. Bye, Giles."

Clicking the phone back onto the receiver, Buffy returns to her sister's side and ignores the suspiciously emptier weight of her soda can and the sneaky grin on Dawn's face.

* * *

Spike lingers in the basement until he's sure he hears the car pull out of the driveway, then he furtively opens the door, deposits the stained and slightly singed blanket at the foot of the stairs, and steps back into the kitchen to call Giles, knowing Buffy will feel better if she's surrounded by her mates. As soon as he mentions Joyce, the Watcher takes him seriously, accepting his story without argument. He rubs his sore cheek, tries to move his face as little as possible as he talks, and snaps the phone down on the hook when he's said enough to let Giles know how to contact Buffy. Then, shrugging his duster over his stiff shoulders, he gingerly climbs the stairs to Buffy's room.

When he opens the door, her scent wafts over him instantly. He pauses on the threshold, drinking it in, memorizing it, letting it warm his face like a healing balm. Her bed is already made, of course, since his shoulder served as her pillow last night. Moving reverently into the room, he brushes a hand across her sheets and grins as he spots Mr. Gordo, Buffy's treasured stuffed pig, nestled between her pillows. If anything is going to be positively dripping with her fragrance . . .

He leans over the stuffed animal, inhales deeply, and is instantly rewarded with the scent of Buffy's neck, stronger than a drug. He groans with desire, gripping the headboard so he doesn't fall over and muss her covers, drawing breath after breath until his aching ribcage is too wracked with pain to let him take another.

Pushing away from the bed, Spike opens the drawers of Buffy's dressers and dives one hand inside, tumbling her clothes around so that her scent is churned up afresh. He pulls out an item at random – a thin, pale pink sweater – and holds it to his face. Closing his eyes, he lets a soft, low "Mmm . . ." escape his lips.

"What are you doing in here?"

Spike whips around and freezes, the scent of Buffy's clothes so overpowering that he hadn't caught a whiff of the other intruder until now. Riley stands in the doorway, eyeing him sternly.

"What, me?" stammers Spike, his mouth going dry. "I was, uh . . . uh . . ."

He clenches the handful of sweater behind his back, staring Riley down, counting the seconds. It's _Buffy's_ room, so naturally there are stakes everywhere, a dozen ways Riley could end him before he could get to the door. His only consolation is that Buffy will probably never be able to get his dust out of the carpet.

"What are _you_ doing in here?" he blurts out, stalling.

"Looking for the girl who's going to rip your arms off when she finds out you were in her bedroom," Riley replies flatly. He clenches one of his hands into a fist and glares, eyeing the fabric behind Spike's back. "Were you . . . were you just smelling her sweater?"

"No . . ." Spike scoffs, awkwardly holding the evidence and wondering for a split-second why Riley is interrogating him rather than just stabbing him into oblivion, like he seemed so keen on doing last night. "Alright. I did. It's a . . . predator thing. Nothing wrong with it. Know your enemy's scent. Whet the appetite for the hunt."

He wrinkles up the pink fabric into his face and dramatically sniffs it, growling aggressively. At least he'll go out with his lungs chock-full of Buffy's scent.

"Yeah, that's the stuff. Slayer musk. It's . . . bitter and aggravating . . . Rrrr!"

Riley's eyes narrow. He reaches out, rips the sweater from Spike's hands, and grabs him by the collar.

"Out," he says gruffly, hauling the vampire towards the hallway. As he's pulled away, Spike swipes at the top drawer of a smaller dresser, but the tenderness in his ribs restricts him, and the bit of lace he barely manages to snag just slips through his fingertips and drops to the floor. Riley yanks Spike by the neck of his coat and manhandles him down the stairs.

"Watch it! Easy! You're bruising the leather! Already did your fair share of bruising last night, you pillock!" he mutters as he tugs his duster free of Riley's grip and takes several steps away from the boy. "I know for a bleeding fact the Slayer wouldn't mind me being here."

"Right," Riley nods sarcastically. "What's a little sweater sniffing between sworn enemies?"

To Spike's surprise, Soldier Boy isn't livid with rage, just irritated and slightly bored, as though he's decided to ignore last night's fight.

"Your girl in the habit of lettin' her enemies buy her drinks?" Spike asks cockily, knowing his attempt at looking tough is severely hampered by how swollen and purple his face is. "'Cause she spent the better part of last night with me – doing just that."

Riley snorts at the ceiling. "'Cause you two are such tight pals. Tell me another."

"'Kay. How 'bout this one? The Slayer was the one who patched me up this morning, after you had your merry fun."

"What fun? I didn't see Buffy last night."

"I know _that_, I was talking 'bout . . ." Spike pauses, giving the human a quizzical look. "What, you don't remember?"

"Remember what?"

"Oh, come off it! You're yanking my leg, right? You don't recall rearranging my face, pretty as you please, not a care that thanks to 'Chips Ahoy' in here, I couldn't so much as lift a pinkie finger to defend myself?"

"You're saying _I_ did this?" Riley negligently twirls his index finger at Spike's heavily bruised countenance. "Hmm. Really wish I could remember. I was . . . very drunk last night, couple of old friends from the Initiative."

_Being drunk _from_, is more like it_, Spike nods knowingly, seeing right through Riley's fib. He guesses that the adrenaline from being repeatedly bitten at the vamp-whorehouse is the cause of Riley's reckless behavior and subsequent amnesia.

"Well, yeah. This is your work," says Spike in a surly tone. "You'd have done me in for sure if Tara hadn't walked by and shouted some sense into you."

"Well, what a crying shame," Riley muses, back to his acerbic attitude. "At least I was thorough. Nose _and_ cheekbone, two-for-the-price-of-one. I bet I really did have fun."

"Sod off," Spike huffs.

"Well, mortal wounds or not, Spike, it doesn't change the fact that I'm throwing you out of the house."

"Yeah? I can waltz back in anytime I like, seein' as Buffy doesn't seem keen to take my name off the guest list."

"That's because you're harmless," Riley retorts, clearly affected by this reminder that Buffy has no problem allowing Spike into her house.

"Yeah. Right. Takes one to know, I s'pose. Least I still got the attitude." Emboldened by the memory of Buffy's kisses, Spike ignores Riley's glowering look and gives him a snarky grin despite the residual pain in his cheek. "Face it, White Bread, Buffy's got a type, and you're not it. She likes us dangerous, rough, occasionally bumpy in the forehead region. Just because you sneak off for a little nibble in the night doesn't make you–"

Riley lets out a feral snarl, closes the distance between them, and hauls Spike to the open doorway by his coat lapels.

"How do you know?! What have you told Buffy?!"

Spike thrashes in Riley's grip, half his body exposed to the late morning sunlight.

"Hey! Hey! Bloody pull me back in, you sod! I'm starting to sizzle!"

"What have you told Buffy?!"

"Haven't said a thing! She's got enough on her hands as it is! Lemme back in!"

Riley hurls Spike back onto the stairs, then grabs a handful of his shirt and snarls into his face, "What do you mean, Buffy has enough on her hands?"

"Her mum's sickly. Buffy took her to the hospital for a little prod and probe. Bite-sized one went too," Spike answers, patting the smoke from his coat and smiling cheekily at Riley. "Funny her not calling you about it. I've known since last night." _Because she trusts me_ . . .

With a final glare, Riley throws Spike out the door onto the lawn.

"Oi! Blanket! Blanket!"

Riley reluctantly chucks the singed blanket at him, and Spike hides himself under the dappled light of the tree in the front yard, adjusting the tarp until it sufficiently covers his exposed face and hands before he heads hurriedly for the nearest sewer entrance.

* * *

The door to her mother's examination room is as formidable as almost any demon Buffy has ever come up against. She rocks back and forth on the balls of her feet, marshalling her courage, when a hand suddenly touches her shoulder. She turns and inhales sharply at the sight of Riley, his green turtleneck sweater bunched up oddly around his neck.

"Hey," he says soothingly. "I heard."

Before Buffy can react to his presence, he draws her into a hug. She returns it hesitatingly, trying not to feel frightened by his touch. She had never considered that he would show up here and hadn't given a single thought to how she'd act when they finally came face to face again. After seeing the aftereffects of his violence towards Spike, she's scared by him, even a little repulsed, and it seems as though their relationship's skeletons in the closet have reanimated into havoc-wreaking zombies.

Ever since Riley unthinkingly slept with body-snatcher Faith, their closeness has never really healed. Plus, he'd behaved so rashly in response to Dracula's thrall on her, as though she'd done it on purpose to remind him that he wasn't a vampire, wasn't Angel. He doesn't trust her, and now he's gone all the time and she has no idea where, leaving Spike to be the one at her side, guarding her from the shadows. Spike, whose shoulder she can cry on, who can share the secrets she wouldn't tell anyone else, who – if he wasn't hampered by the chip – is her equal in a fight, a real challenge, no holding back . . .

Buffy pulls herself out of Riley's arms.

"I . . . I've got to go in and find out . . . Can you stay with Dawn for a minute while I talk to Mom?"

"You got it. Buffy . . ."

But she turns away and enters the darkened examination room before he can see the tears forming in her eyes.

* * *

_A shadow . . . a brain-tumor . . . magic can't help . . . another unsuccessful fight with 'Glory' . . . the tears in Mom's eyes as the doctor pronounced her sentence . . . the Cobra-demon in the Magic Box . . . and Riley's gone once again._

The graveyard seems chillier than usual as Buffy walks purposefully toward Spike's crypt. Her face is a mask of dazed misery, her steps slightly uneven due to the injuries Glory inflicted on her. Her strength of mind is at its breaking point – half of her thoughts shouting at her to just give in and be vulnerable to the only person she trusts, but the sensible half responds with equal gusto, reminding her that once she starts, she won't be able to stop . . .

She pauses at the crypt door and considers knocking, but knows her willpower is crumbling by the second. Instead, she turns the handle and pushes the door open, compromising by not kicking it down like she typically does.

"Buffy . . . come on in," says Spike nervously as she enters. Though his face is still a purplish-color, his eyes are less swollen and he sits comfortably in his armchair, his ribcage mostly repaired.

"Y-you look a little better," Buffy notes pleasantly.

"Yeah, been restin' mostly, couple cups of blood." He sniffs the air – sensing the fresh cuts from Buffy's brawl with Glory – and stands up, his eyes full of concern. "You're hurt, pet."

"Minimal damage of the fighting kind. It's all . . . the other kind," she mumbles, looking down at her hands.

"What sort of beastie–?"

"Glory, the . . . the demon-woman that's after Dawn. She transfigured a snake that attacked the magic shop."

"Everyone a'right? Lil' Bit?"

"Safe. I killed the snake before it could report back to Glory."

Spike steps closer to Buffy, trying to read her expressionless face.

"Somethin's eating you, Buffy. I can tell. Is it your mum? Did the doctors suss out what's been givin' her the migranes?"

"They . . . they found . . . No! I'm not here to talk about that." She blinks away tears, feeling her fear return afresh. Spike watches the conflict in her – knowing that she's struggling with the desire to disclose her pain to him again – and so he backs down, not wanting to push her.

"Suit yourself, luv. To what do I owe the visit?"

"I . . . it's about . . . this morning . . . us, together . . ."

Greatly surprised, Spike's eyes light up, and his smile is dashing.

"Yeah? What about this morning?" he asks playfully. "Not sure any of these coffin slabs are as comfy as your countertop, but . . ."

"No, Spike."

Her response is so harsh that his grin vanishes immediately, wildly wondering what he's managed to do to upset her. Has Riley told her about finding him in her bedroom? Would she really be angry about that if he has?

"I . . . I've had time to think about . . . this _us_ thing . . . it's not . . . it can't _be_ anything. I know you said some . . . things about how you feel, but . . ."

"Buffy, what I feel for you . . . it's real."

"We . . . we can't do this. I can't love you. You're a vampire."

"So what was sodding Angel, then? An orangutan?"

"Angel had a soul. He was good."

"And I can be too. I've changed, Buffy."

"You mean the chip? That's not change. That's just holding you back."

"So you'd rather I had a cursed soul holding me back instead, tying my arms out of guilt?" he demands, voice rising. "You don't get it, do you? Did the _chip_ make me help you lot get Tara out of the clutches of her freak family? Did the _chip_ force me to save you from the Lai-Ach demons or from that ugly poofter who staked you? Did the _chip_ keep me by your side last night, holding you until sunrise nearly fried me? Eh?"

He steps forward assertively, claiming her eye-contact. "Well, I'll tell you . . . the chip didn't make me do one sodding thing. I. Love. You. It's all for you, baby. I'd do anything for you."

"I don't love you, Spike."

"Sorry, pet, I'm not buying it. You can float down that Egyptian river all you like, but after last night I know you must feel–"

"I do _not_ love you."

"Please, Buffy, just . . . give me something . . . a crumb, the barest smidge . . . tell me someday, maybe, there's a chance . . ."

"I l-l-love Riley," Buffy whispers, tears welling over, caused by both the wince that crosses Spike's face and the sick feeling in her stomach that forms as the lie leaves her lips.

"Do you? Truly? Even after what he did . . . to me?"

"Yes."

Her answer stings in Spike's ears, more painful than the electric bolts from the chip, but he shrugs them off and stares into Buffy's gleaming green eyes.

"So . . . what, you're saying I mean absolutely nothing to you? I'm just the outcast of your precious Scooby Gang, the neutered vamp who gets in your way? The shoulder to cry on when a bit of cold comfort suits your fancy? A nice breakable punching bag for dear ol' Soldier Boy?"

Buffy takes a shaky breath and tries to speak, but her throat closes in. So she just nods helplessly, two more tears slipping down her cheeks. Spike exhales sharply, then bites hard on his tongue until he tastes a spurt of his own blood. His head is screaming, begging him to tell her Riley's dark secret. But he can't, not while she's so worried about Joyce's health and the mystery demon-bitch, Glory, who's after Dawn. He has to bide his time, wait for Soldier Boy to flub up on his own.

"Well," he sighs, yielding, "then you're a cruel bint for leading me on like that, Summers, warming the cockles of my cold, dead heart."

Buffy chokes down another sob, ashamed. "I know, William. I used you."

"The hell you did."

They stand, eyes locked on each other, facing off as if waiting for the bell to chime and the next round of battle to begin. Finally, Buffy swallows the knot in her throat, looks away, and begins walking toward the crypt exit.

"Doesn't change a thing on my part, you know," Spike says to her back, itching to follow her but respectfully staying put.

"Goodbye, Spike," Buffy whispers without turning around, her hand on the doorknob.

"Anytime you need to let it out, I'm right here, pet. Even if you're just _using_ me."

His voice is bitter, stiffly hiding how much her words have hurt him. The crypt door closes with a creaky _thud_, and Spike sinks back into his chair and lays his head in his hands.

* * *

To be continued . . .

_A/N: Picture Spike on his knees during 'Rest in Peace', serenading you . . . and imagine he's asking for a review for this fanfic. ;) But for real, I'd love to know what you think, especially about these last two chapters, since this is where it has really started going AU._


	7. Chapter 7: Presents

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: I cut this chapter in half because it was getting really long and I really wanted to update it for you lovely readers! Part 2 will be coming very soon and hopefully will delight you all. ;)

HUGE kudos to _Forever-Furuba_, who wrote me an amazing review, so many deep thoughts about the characters! I love and adore every single review that I get!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter draws on "Listening to Fear" and "Crush", including both direct and slightly altered quotes, and brief quotes from "Touched".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: After crying on Spike's cold shoulder, Buffy learns of her mom's brain tumor and that Glory isn't above buying transmogrification artifacts at the magic shop. She's emotionally drifting away from Riley, but is in denial about any feelings she might have towards Spike. Oh . . . and Sunnydale is about to be invaded by aliens . . ._

* * *

Chapter 7: Presents

"Care package! Special delivery for the Summers' girls!"

Willow enters Joyce's hospital room positively bursting with gift-giving jubilee, a welcomed change from the subdued expressions on Buffy, Dawn, and Joyce's faces. Reaching into the gift bag, she first unveils a plastic beer hat for Joyce, but Buffy is distracted by the brief pained look that crosses her mother's countenance.

"Headache?"

"A little one. A biggish little one," her mom shrugs. "I'm fine. Now go on, what else is in that sack of goodies, Willow?"

"Alright, Dawn, to keep you busy . . ." Willow pulls out a thin red book entitled _Spells: An Introduction_.

"Spells! Wow, cool! Thanks Willow!"

Buffy raises her eyebrows skeptically. "You got her a book of spells? The girl who can break things by looking at them now has a book to teach her how to, you know . . . break things by looking at them."

"It doesn't actually have the spells. It's just history, anecdotes, stuff like that. Oh, Buffy, here. I brought this for you."

She draws a sizable textbook out of the tote bag and hands it to Buffy, who pouts.

"Homework! Hmph! I don't believe in tiny Jewish Santa anymore!"

"Well, well, well . . . guess I'd better fall in line."

Spike stands in the doorway, a natural-looking bouquet and a couple of packages under his arm. Willow pauses, about to give Buffy the yo-yo in the bottom of her bag, and Buffy eyes Spike suspiciously, hands on her hips.

"What are you doing here, Spike?"

"Spreading merriment and cheer, just like Red here," he smirks. With a small flourish and a bow, he offers the bouquet of wildflowers to Joyce. "Flowers for the dear lady . . ."

"Oh, how thoughtful of you," Buffy's mom replies, breathing in the fresh flowers' fragrance.

"And chocolates for my Little Bit . . ." Spike tosses a set of two Hershey's milk chocolate bars across Joyce's hospital bed to Dawn, who grins gleefully and tears off one of the wrappers. "And for you, luv . . ."

He steps into the room and extends his final gift to Buffy: a small notebook bound in black leather.

"Everyone's giving me books," she huffs as she takes it from him and starts peeling through the pages. Only the first one has any writing on it; the rest are blank.

"A diary?" she asks disappointedly. "Can I get a refund and have chocolate instead?"

Spike's ocean-blue eyes harden slightly, stung by her offhand attitude. "It's for your thoughts, since you don't seem keen on voicing them to anyone. Gotta let them out somewhere so your noggin doesn't explode."

He gives her a pointed look, his lips pressing together in a stiff line. Buffy squirms uncomfortably under his stare.

"Will, can you wait here for a second?" she asks, tossing the diary and Willow's history textbook onto the table next to Dawn. She takes Spike by an arm and pulls him out into the hallway, then shuts the door to Joyce's room.

"What's the matter, pet? Finally feeling guilty for treating me like dirt?" he asks, playful but with a lingering hurt tone. The only remaining evidence of Riley's violence towards him is a tinge of black around his eyes and a lingering bruise on his left cheekbone.

"Spike, why are you here?" Buffy demands, crossing her arms and eyeing him impatiently.

"Why's it look like I'm here? Figured you lot needed some cheering up, and thought maybe I'd nick a blood bag or two and have myself a tasty treat later on."

"Cut it out, Spike. You don't fool me. I told you to stop this."

"And I told you nothin' could change how I feel, pet. I love you."

"No, I don't want to hear this." She raises her hands, covers her ears for a moment, and then smoothes back her hair. "I can't deal with you right now. Do you have any idea how much pressure I'm under, with Dawn and Mom and . . . and Riley?"

"Yes, I do. I'm not trying to add to all that, luv," Spike insists. "I'm trying to help you let it out."

"I can't. Not to you. Not again."

"But it was good for you," he murmurs, cautiously smiling. "I know who you are, luv. You're the Slayer, the one and only. Set apart. I know it's in your nature to distance yourself from everyone in your life. You try to get close . . . but you end up just pushing people away."

Buffy gapes at him, and he perseveres with growing confidence. "But since you didn't care what I thought about you, you let it out, let a bit of the real Buffy shine through. Gotta say . . . the real you? Beautiful. You're a hell'uva woman, Buffy."

"Stop doing this!" she whispers harshly, wiping her moistening eyes. "Grrr! You were so much more predictable when you wanted to rip my throat out."

* * *

Back inside the hospital room, Joyce spouts some bewildering comments – provoked by the pressure of the tumor against her brain – and then decides to rest, wearied by all her tests and medications. As she nestles into her pillow, Dawn picks up the black notebook and opens it to the first page.

"Dawn, maybe you shouldn't . . ."

"Oh my gosh . . ." the teenager interrupts, her voice low enough to not disturb Joyce. "Willow, Spike's totally in love with Buffy. Look."

Astonished, Willow reluctantly reads the diary page over Dawn's shoulder. Inside is a poem, handwritten in black ink:

_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.  
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height  
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight  
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.  
I love thee to the level of everyday's  
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.  
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;  
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.  
I love thee with a passion put to use  
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.  
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose  
With my lost saints, - I love thee with the breath,  
Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose,  
I shall but love thee better after death._

For a long moment, neither of the girls can speak, but just stare at the lines of verse, nonplussed.

"I . . . uh, I've read that poem," Willow awkwardly mumbles, closing the notebook and placing it back on top of the history text. "It's a sonnet, by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. Maybe . . . maybe it came in the diary. Pre-printed."

"In a generic notepad? I don't think so. And besides, have you seen how he looks at her? He's got a huge crush on her," Dawn persists gleefully. _Not to mention they were definitely making out in the kitchen the other morning . . ._

Willow gives her a shushing look as they open the hospital room door and see Spike and Buffy, standing two feet apart with their arms crossed tightly, stubborn looks on both of their faces.

"Is Mom okay?" Buffy immediately asks, her eyes haggard.

"Yeah, she's just resting," Willow answers, trying to sound reassuring.

Spike glances from Buffy to Dawn, noticing the same fearful look on both of the Summers daughters' faces.

"Hey, Niblet, how 'bout I buy you a soda?" he offers, fishing in his pocket for spare change. Dawn nods with a sniffle and follows him down the hallway. They encounter a family escorting a middle-aged mental patient, who lunges toward Dawn, pointing accusingly. But a glare and a low growl from Spike makes the man cower away from the two of them, and his wife and two daughters continue guiding him toward the check-out desk.

"Buffy . . ." begins Willow.

"Is Mom really okay?" she demands, biting back the tears that Spike's emotionally charged words had dredged out of her.

"Well, she did say some weird stuff."

'The doctor told me that might happen. It's . . . the thing in her brain, pressing on something."

"Buffy . . . I wanted to ask . . . is . . . is everything okay with . . . you and Riley?"

Buffy freezes up, completely unprepared for Willow's question.

"What . . . makes you think there isn't?"

"I dunno. He just . . . he never seems to be around anymore. He didn't show up for patrol last night with us. I hate to have to bother you, with all the stuff going on with your mom, but . . . I wanna be able to help, you know? I wanna be your friend."

Buffy sighs, wishing she could just come clean. In her heart of hearts, she feels guilty for letting herself get so close to Spike, even though it didn't lead to anything and though she's now sworn to herself that she's cut it off for good. She's spent the last few days trying to convince herself that it wasn't 'cheating' in the strictest sense . . . just a release of pent up stress, nothing meaningful, no feelings involved on her part. It's the emotional vulnerability that she continues to feel with Spike that worries her, because she hasn't been able to feel that way with Riley in a long time.

"Things are . . . strained," she finally admits to Willow, eyes dropping to the floor. "He's always been insecure about . . . my Slayer life and being not as strong as me, and ever since Graham came back and he had his heart fixed, he's been even more distant. And now I'm so focused on Mom that I can't spare the time to talk things through with him, and part of me isn't even sure I want to . . . Riley!"

The former soldier strolls towards them down the hallway, wearing another oddly bunched-up turtleneck.

"Riley, where . . . where have you been?" Buffy asks, quiet and anxious.

"Out," Riley answers curtly as he reaches them. "Didn't think you needed me."

Buffy chews on the inside of her lip, shaken by his coldness.

"Well, I . . . I guess I'll go," Willow mumbles, rocking awkwardly on her heels and not wanting to be present when Spike returns with Dawn. "Xander and Tara are out in the car. We all snuck away from the research party. Giles is having a guilt-fest after letting Glory buy that stuff in the shop the other day."

"Thanks for coming, Willow. We really love all of Santa's presents, even the homework."

"Glad to help . . . and to listen. We're all just a phone call away." Willow gives Buffy a quick hug, then shoulders her tote bag and heads down the hallway and out to the hospital parking lot.

"So . . . what'd she think of the beer hat?" asks Xander excitedly as soon as the redhead opens his car door and slips into the back seat with Tara.

"She liked it," Willow sighs, distracted by Buffy's quick confessions and surprised that her usually tight-lipped friend had opened up to her.

"Everything okay, sweetie?" Tara inquires, gently touching Willow's arm. "You looks stressed."

Willow sighs contemplatively, now thinking of how adamantly Dawn had insisted that Spike has a crush on Buffy. Maybe the younger Summers sister knows more than she had admitted.

"Xander . . ."

"What?" he asks, glancing over his shoulder as he pulls out of the parking lot.

"Dawn said that . . ." Willow pauses, looking between her long-time best friend and her girlfriend.

"What?" Tara prompts, holding one of her hands.

"Dawn thinks . . . she says that . . . Spike might be in love with Buffy."

Xander stomps on the brake so quickly that the driver behind them honks the horn and gestures obscenely, before swerving into the other lane and driving around them. He stares back at Willow for a moment and then starts howling with uncontrollable laughter.

"Xander, it's not a joke!"

"Oh I hope not!" he gasps between chuckles. "It's funnier if it's true!"

"This is serious," Tara reprimands, poking Xander in the shoulder until his laughs subside and he resumes driving to the Magic Box. "Honey, did anything happened in there to make you think that?"

"Yeah," adds Xander, "how did Dawn come to this extremely entertaining conclusion?"

"Well, Spike gave Buffy a notebook as a present, and it had a love sonnet in it . . . Stop laughing!"

"Spike . . . love sonnet . . ." are the only words the two witches can distinguish in Xander's resumed spurt of chortling.

"You know, Xander, we can always gag you by magic if you don't quit that," Willow reminds him threateningly.

"Why are you two being so serious?" he asks light-heartedly as they pull up to the curb outside the Magic Box, narrowly missing the back of Giles's recently-repaired sports car. "How upset can you get over one of Spike's fevered day-dreams that's never going to happen?"

"Maybe . . . maybe Spike's just trying to be a better friend," Tara offers. "Because of Mrs. Summers being sick and Riley not . . . being so dependable lately."

"Yeah, Riley has been kinda the absent boyfriend figure," Willow nods. "Xand . . . has he . . . said anything to you, maybe, about . . . if he's, I dunno, not into Buffy anymore? You don't have to break the bro-code or anything . . but if he doesn't really want to commit, Buffy has the right to know so that she can make a choice."

"What, between Riley and _Spike_?" Xander counters, teetering on the edge of another laughing spree. "Hmm, let's see . . . normal boyfriend, or stalker bloodthirsty vampire. Come on, Buffy's not stupid. She and Riley are great together, and besides, she hates Spike."

"In all fairness, Spike did go after that vamp that staked her," Tara reminds them. "And Riley beat him up for it. It was awful."

"Tara, did you . . . did you know anything about this?" asks Willow, surprised. "About Spike liking Buffy?"

The shy witch shrugs. "Well, I . . . I suspected something on Spike's part. And I . . . I think Riley does too."

* * *

"What's _he_ doing here?" Riley mutters as Spike and Dawn walk together back towards Joyce's room, a soda can in Dawn's hands and a pair of blood bags being furtively stuffed into Spike's duster pocket.

"Same as you," replies Buffy stiffly. "He's here as my _friend_, to support me and Dawn and Mom."

"Friend, huh?" Riley repeats, his voice full of skepticism. "You sure he's not here to drink from any unsuspecting victims?"

"Why don't you go _have a drink_, mate?" Spike suggests darkly. "I'm sure you'll feel better then."

Riley glares, and Buffy glances between them, wondering if there's some inside reference she's missing.

"Hey . . . look at Mom," Dawn says suddenly, pointing through the window blinds into the hospital room. Joyce is sitting upright on her bed and frantically pushing the nurse-call button on the device attached to the bed.

"Mom?" Buffy asks, pushing open the door and gently extracting the device from her mom's fingers.

"This thing doesn't work! It isn't working!" Joyce insists, irrationally agitated.

"I'm sure they heard you, Mom," says Buffy consolingly.

"I bet it's not even hooked up to anything. Like those push-buttons at the crosswalks that are supposed to make the signal change."

"I'm sure someone's on their way . . . the push-buttons at crosswalks aren't hooked up to anything?" Buffy asks, shocked by this news. Spike grins, but then moves out of the way so that Dr. Kriegel can enter Joyce's room. He, Riley, and Dawn linger in the hallway while the doctor and Buffy discuss taking Joyce home to await the surgery instead of spending the night at the hospital.

"She's just givin' herself more work," Spike mutters, picking at the black polish on one of his nails.

"What, you don't think she can handle it?" Riley accuses, glowering over Spike.

"Of course she _can_, but she doesn't have to. She's got more than enough on her plate . . . gotta promise you'll be a big help to her, eh, Niblet?"

He pokes Dawn in the arm, earning a smile from the teenager.

"Uh-huh," she answers before turning her gaze on Riley. "Way more help than _you_."

Riley opens his mouth to retort, but then his pager beeps and he unhooks it from his belt, reading the message.

"It's the gang. They found something in the woods. Some kind of meteorite." He looks through the window into the hospital room. "Tell Buffy I'll come see her tomorrow, before the surgery."

"Fine," Dawn snaps. Riley's eyes narrow for a moment, then he turns his back on the two of them and heads for the exit.

"You're sure givin' Soldier Boy the cold shoulder, Lil' Bit," Spike chuckles as they watch Riley's retreating back. "Anything particular, or just singin' my tune and can't stand the sight of him?"

"Buffy told me he's the one who beat you up for no reason," admits Dawn, spinning her soda can in her hands.

"Did she now? Made me out to be the helpless victim, eh?"

"Yeah, and plus, I like how you talk to me like I can understand things. Like I'm not a little kid. I . . . I know Buffy likes how you talk to her too, or listen to her. You know what I mean."

"Really?" Spike smiles, leaning against the wall, his eyes wide with interest. "So . . . what else does Buffy say about me?"

Before Dawn can answer, the door to Joyce's room opens, and they both hear Dr. Kriegel say, "There are medications to administer. I'd have to go over those with you. And I'd need you to check her vitals, watch her pretty closely. I'm afraid you won't get a lot of sleep."

"I'm not really a sleep-person anyway," Buffy replies, while Spike looks on anxiously. _Poor Slayer looks exhausted enough already_ . . .

"Let's go now. Can we go now?" Joyce begs.

"Mom, wait, I need the stuff . . . the medications and instructions, how to do everything."

"She's right," says Dr. Kriegel. "Let's do this right. We don't want to forget anything. I'll be back in a minute."

He passes by Dawn and Spike and goes to speak with an orderly. Buffy – looking weary but slightly encouraged – leans against the doorway and glances around.

"Riley left?"

"He had to split, investigate something," Dawn answers before Spike can say anything. "He was being a party-poop anyway."

A tiny smile appears at the corner of Buffy's lips, and Spike beams at the sight of it. "Sun's down, pet. I can help, do whatever you need . . ."

"Spike . . ." Buffy begins to argue, but she can't refuse him, knowing she'll be grateful for any aid she can get. "Um . . . okay, just . . . would you stay with Dawn and Mom, get her ready to go while I fill stuff out with the doctor?"

"Sure, luv. Anything you need."

Dawn grins and hugs Spike's arm happily as Buffy walks away after Dr. Kriegel. In a few minutes they are back, bearing numerous forms and prescription bottles.

"If this is going to be too much for you, we can make your mom perfectly comfortable here . . ."

"No, no," Buffy assures him. "I've got it. And I really appreciate –"

"You look like your father when he cries," Joyce blurts out, confusing everyone. Spike sighs, reminded of the last night of his own mother's existence, the changes he wrought in her, the vicious words . . .

Buffy turns to Dr. Kriegel. "She's . . . I told you she's been . . ."

"I know," says the doctor.

"Hey, Joyce," Spike cuts in, taking Mrs. Summers gently by the arm. Her eyes refocus on him. "Think the doc's done talkin' with Buffy, got you all set for home. How 'bout it?"

"Yes . . . yes, thank you. Thanks for all your help, Doctor."

"I'll see you in a couple of days," says Dr. Kriegel, looking a little confused at Spike but dismissing his actions as those of a close family friend. He turns to go, and Joyce tucks her arm closer into Spike's elbow, Dawn on her other side.

"Let's get the hell out of here," Mrs. Summers sighs to her three escorts.

* * *

_A/N: The poem in the diary is Sonnet 43: "How do I love thee?" by EB Browning, first published in 1850. It seemed like the sort of poem Spike would have read, even during his pre-vampire life. I thought it was fitting._

_Part 2 coming pronto!_


	8. Chapter 8: Closing the Distance

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: **Obligatory warning: Another lime scene mid-way through!**

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter draws on "Listening to Fear", including both direct and slightly altered quotes, and brief quotes from "Dead Things", "The Gift", and "Once More With Feeling". Starts right where Ch 7 left off.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Willow and Spike bring the Summers' girls some get-well presents . . . including a suspiciously sappy love poem that sends Xander into howls of laughter at the thought that Spike has a crush on Buffy. Riley leaves the hospital to hunt down the Queller alien, and Spike helps Buffy and Dawn take Joyce home for the night._

* * *

Chapter 8: Closing the Distance

Spike drives Joyce's van back to 1630 Revello Drive, and aside from Joyce's sporadic and increasingly bizarre babble, the trip is nearly silent. Buffy hops out the moment Spike parks in their driveway, then helps Dawn support her mom up to the front door. The four of them enter, and Buffy locks the door behind them.

"Oh, that light," Joyce protests when Buffy routinely turns on the foyer light. "Oh, Buffy, no, it's too bright. Too bright . . . it's too bright . . ."

"Okay, Mom . . ." Buffy nods, flipping the switch again.

"Buffy, it hurts, it hurts . . . it hurts my eyes . . ."

Spike hurries inside and starts switching off the lights in the living room and dining room while Buffy hugs her mom, speaking in a soothing tone.

"It's okay, don't worry . . . Dawn, turn off the lights up there, too."

"Sure," the teenager hurriedly obeys, dashing up the stairs ahead of Joyce and Buffy. Spike remains downstairs, helplessly watching them.

"Think I should make her a cuppa? She likes that green mint one, right?"

"Sure . . . fine, Spike," Buffy replies distractedly as she and her mom reach the landing, turning off lights as they go.

He strolls into the kitchen and sets the teakettle on the stovetop, biting his lip anxiously. The house looks gloomy and vulnerable with all the interior lights out, so Spike hunts in a lower cabinet for some emergency candles, lights half a dozen with his Zippo, and carries them into the downstairs rooms, setting them on countertops and coffee tables. He waits in the kitchen to muffle the teakettle the moment it starts to whistle, then pours three mugs of green tea for his girls.

Dawn and Buffy return downstairs and walk mutely into the living room, stony looks on both of their faces.

"How's Mum?" Spike asks sweetly, handing them their mugs.

"We put her to bed," Buffy answers, no inflection in her voice. Dawn steps past the two of them and sits on the couch, pulling an afghan blanket over her knees.

"Oh."

"Thanks for all the candles," says Dawn, her voice not quite as hollow as her sister's, but still lacking her usual spark.

"It's nothin'. You, uh . . . mind if I step out back for a smoke?"

"Do whatever you want, Spike," Buffy replies wearily, curling up on the couch with Dawn and turning on some laugh-track sitcom on the TV, anything to distract her from her own life.

Fighting the urge to sit with them – or even to lean over Buffy and kiss her forehead – Spike turns his back on the silent sisters and heads back into the kitchen. He picks up the mug he prepared for Joyce and downs the cup of scalding hot tea, then slides it over to the stack of days-old dishes in the sink, and finally tosses the two stolen blood bags from his pocket into one of the refrigerator drawers. _At least now I'll have a stash of hemoglobin-flavored pick-me-ups_ . . .

Quietly opening the back door, Spike steps out onto the porch and digs his pack of cigarettes out of his jeans' back pocket. Watching Buffy suffer like this is sheer torment, and he doubts his meager contributions are doing her much good. He considers leaving the house, but spending the night alone in his crypt waiting for news sounds even more depressing than hanging around here with them.

There's an odd smell in the air, an acrid syrupy scent, and he hesitates with the cig between his teeth, the lighter poised to ignite it. Behind him, something clangs in the kitchen, and he rushes back to the door. Joyce stands in her nightgown in front of the fridge, wraith-like and frail . . . so similar to his own mother that a lump of regret clogs his throat.

"Joyce . . . you shouldn't–"

"Mom?" calls Buffy a moment before she and Dawn run in from the other room. They see the disarray – spilled orange juice on the counter, an empty frying pan smoking on the stove, their barefooted mom standing at the open refrigerator.

"Mom, what are you–?" Buffy whispers until Joyce rudely cuts her off, her voice unnaturally harsh.

"I'm making breakfast," she snarls at her eldest daughter. "You shouldn't eat anymore. You're disgustingly fat!"

A look of pain strikes across Buffy's face, even though she knows her mom isn't in control of her own words. Spike gently lays a hand on Joyce's other arm as Dawn dashes over to turn off the stove burner.

"Joyce, pet, it's near midnight," he says gently. "You ought'a be up in your bed."

Her eyes refocusing, Mrs. Summers looks around the dark, messy kitchen, bewildered by the attention.

"Spike? Buffy . . . I-I-I don't know what I'm doing."

"It's okay," Buffy whispers, holding her mom in a comforting embrace. Only Spike sees the two quick tears she flicks out of her eyes.

"I'm . . . I didn't mean to . . . I don't know what's happening to me," Joyce stammers.

"You need to rest. Let's just get you back to bed."

With a daughter supporting each arm, Joyce willingly returns to the staircase. Buffy glances back at Spike, who lingers in the kitchen, feeling intrusive.

"She . . . Mom needs a cup of water to take her pills . . ."

"I'll bring it," he offers immediately, reaching for a glass and filling it at the sink. By the time he walks up the steps to Joyce's bedroom, the girls have just finished tucking her under the covers, as though she is the child, not the mother. Buffy twists the cap off one of the prescription bottles and takes the water glass from Spike, who steps back, leaning against the doorframe.

"Here, Mom, these will help you sleep. There you go."

Dawn perches on the edge of the bed, holding her mom's hand while she tips back her head, swallows her pills, and makes a disgruntled face. Joyce looks at her youngest daughter, and suddenly a wild look of fear consumes her.

"Don't touch me, you – you thing!"

Dawn shies away and backs up into Spike.

"M-Mom, please . . ."

"Get way from me!" Joyce shouts, clutching the blankets around her and still staring at Dawn. "You're nothing! You're a shadow! I don't know what you are or how you got here!"

"Mom, it's Dawn," Buffy whispers, standing between her mother and sister.

_The crazy man outside the Magic Box . . . the mental patient today in the hospital . . . and now Mom_ . . . Scared and confused, Dawn pushes at Spike until he moves out of the doorway, then she runs into her own room and slams the door.

"Dawn, honey, what's wrong?" Joyce calls after her, the mental episode ending as suddenly as it began.

"She's . . . tired, Mom. We all are," says Buffy, straightening her mom's sheets and holding the half-empty glass of water.

"You get some rest now, Joyce," advises Spike. "Somebody'll pop in on you in a bit. Buffy . . ."

She joins him in the hallway, closes the door to her mom's room, then walks down to Dawn's door.

"What'll you say to her?" he whispers as Buffy knocks twice on her sister's door.

"Anything . . . but the truth," Buffy mumbles, swallowing stiffly.

"I'll . . . I'll be downstairs, luv."

Spike reaches for Buffy with one hand and gives her shoulder a gentle squeeze, then shuffles slowly downstairs into the living room. He tries not to listen to Dawn's frightened words, but a few phrases float down to him from the upstairs bedrooms.

"_She – she called me a thing_."

"_She loves you. She's just not herself. I told you want the doctor said. It's the tumor. She–_"

"_No, not just Mom. People. They keep saying stuff like that . . . about me_."

_Poor Lil Bit_, he ponders, pacing in front of the couch,_ sweet thing doesn't even know what she is_.

Spike crosses over to the television and switches channels, but there's nothing decent on this late at night, just sitcom re-runs and infomercials. He rifles through a desk drawer for the trusty deck of cards, then hunkers down on the couch and lays out a game of solitaire. Eventually he hears Dawn's bedroom door close and Buffy's footprints on the steps, so he stands, awaiting her.

Buffy neither speaks to him nor even glances in his direction; she just walks mechanically down the stairs, turns her back on him, and plods through the dining room into the dirty kitchen.

"Buffy?"

His only answer is the sound of water running in the sink and the radio turning on, tuned to some random Spanish music station. He looks up at the ceiling as a light thump on the floor above alerts him to Joyce tossing and turning on her bed, and even through the closed door he can faintly hear her delusional mutterings.

"_I wish someone had bothered to tell me . . . because I didn't know there'd be tennis being played. I just didn't know . . . oh, why? Those eyes, they're like gasoline puddles . . ._"

"Buffy," Spike murmurs, setting down the card deck and crossing to the kitchen, "I can hear your mum. Meds don't seem to be doing the . . . the trick . . ."

He rounds the corner and spots Buffy, scrubbing futilely at an already clean plate. A moment later, she leans over the cluttered sink and starts to shake with muffled sobs, the pressure and fear finally overwhelming her.

"Buffy . . ." He quickly side-steps the kitchen island, reaches over to turn up the salsa music so she can cry in privacy without alerting Dawn, and hugs her around the waist. "I'm here, sweetheart. That's it. Let it out."

Her unsteady hands drop the plate back into the pile of dishes and then fumble with the faucet, switching off the water. Without warning, Buffy twists around in Spike's arms to face him and beats a fist against his chest with a blow that would have sent Riley flying halfway across the room. Spike winces briefly, then smiles and braces his legs against the island behind him as her closed hand rains down on him a second time.

"I c-c-can't talk t-t-t-to anyone else!" she blubbers, her face covered with streaky tears. "I . . . I n-n-need you . . . I'm s-so s-sorry . . ."

She tucks her head underneath his chin and keeps bashing her fist against him, her blows gradually weakening as her deep sobs increase.

"Come on, that's it," he whispers sweetly. "Put it on me. Put it all on me. That's my girl . . ."

His gentle words send her over the brink. As the enthusiastic mariachi music continues, she clutches his shirt in both of her hands and cries against his chest, letting the terror take over. And for once she's not the Slayer, not the chosen one. She's just a scared little girl whose world is falling apart.

Spike holds her up, massaging her forehead with cool kisses, treasuring the feel of her body pressing tightly against his. Buffy's cries slowly start to wane, her fingers still tightly balled up around his t-shirt. He can feel damp patches on his chest from where her tears have soaked through.

"I . . . I'm sorry, Spike . . ."

"No, my love . . . don't you waste one second feeling sorry," he contradicts her, brushing one hand through her bangs and tucking her hair behind her ear. "It's not about me. This is for you, what you need. Anything you need."

Stretching out his hand, he flicks off the radio, picks up a dishrag, and offers it to Buffy, who dries her face. She is still shaking, holding tightly to Spike's shirt as though she'll sink through the floor if she lets go of him, but her breaths are finally calm, no longer punctuated by quivering gasps.

"Why are you so good to me?" she sniffs, laying the side of her face against his cool collarbone.

"'Cause I'm a stubborn git who can't back down from a fight, even one I know I'll lose," he murmurs, almost apologetically. His fingers continue stroking through her hair. "I know you'll never love me. I know that I'm a monster, but you treat me like a man. And that's . . ."

"Spike . . ."

She touches two fingers to his lips, and all the words he had prepared to say next just evaporate from his mind. Her other hand brushes slowly down the left side of his face from his scarred eyebrow to his sharp cheekbone, the bruise a faded russet color, barely noticeable in the wavering candlelight. He smiles and watches as an oddly resolved look appears on her face.

"Buffy . . . what are you–?"

She leans up and cuts off his words with a kiss – desperate, rough, and demanding. Her lips are sweet and salty with the flavor of her tears. Spike grips her shoulders tightly, giving in to the fantasy for a few precious seconds, kissing her back with interest.

Then, using every ounce of his self-restraint, he pushes his head forward so that their foreheads remain touching but their lips part, and gasps out the words, "Buffy . . . think, luv . . . think what you're doing . . . is this really what you want?"

"I want you. I need you. Make me forget."

She wraps both arms around his cool, smooth neck and pulls his lips to hers once more. He groans longingly into her kiss, torn between his own desires and the bittersweet truth that to her, this isn't real, isn't about _them_. But . . . this is what he promised: for _her_, what _she_ needs, anything _she_ needs . . . And right now what she needs is distraction from the real pain in her life, anything to keep her mind off the harsh reality of her mom's life-threatening crisis.

So Spike – her willing slave – obeys, gliding his cool mouth over her neck, teeth lightly nipping down her throat until she moans, then joining their lips again, cupping her face in his palms. Her hands are more fierce, running coarsely down his chest, nails pressing through the t-shirt fabric to scratch his skin. Fueled by her aggression, he growls and presses her back into the counter beside the sink, grinding against her center.

With a sudden ragged gasp, she grips his forearms tightly, wide eyes staring into his. He freezes in fear, wondering if he's gone too far, crossed whatever blurred line she had in her head for their fleeting dalliance.

"Buffy . . ."

"Don't stop."

She winds an arm around his waist and hauls him tight against her, her other hand coiling in his hair again, drawing him down into another open-mouthed kiss. Slowly at first, Spike rubs into her, hips tensing and relaxing to a familiar rhythm, and her moans deepen. Her heat beckons him, promising a fire to match the glorious warmth of her mouth. Her hands begin fumbling at his belt, and his fingers slip inside the back of her gray flannel shirt and grope for the strap of her bra.

"BUFFY!"

Dawn's scream echoes through the house, her shout cut off by the _SLAM_ of an upstairs door. Buffy pushes Spike away from her, and he backs into the island, panting and steadying himself.

"Dawn?" gasps Buffy.

"Again?" he mutters at the ceiling, at the moment more peeved by the interruption than by the unannounced danger upstairs. Buffy gives him a quick scathing look as she bolts for the stairs, and he growls in frustrated dissatisfaction before following her.

"Dawn?!" she shouts, reaching the top of the steps just ahead of Spike and shoving open the door to Joyce's bedroom to see her mom and sister crouching on the bed. "What is it?"

"There's something out there, Buffy!" Dawn cries. "It's after Mom!"

"You two stay in there. Do not leave that–"

"Buffy!" yells Spike as the hideous gray creature descends from the ceiling onto her. She flails and screams, stumbling backwards into Spike. Caught in a wrestling tangle, all three tumble down the stairs and hit the floor with a crash. The cockroach-like monster scuttles away around the corner before Spike and Buffy can get to their feet.

"Where'd it go?" she demands, staring around.

"And how do we slay it when we get our hands on it?" he adds in a whisper.

Buffy nods, and both of them tip-toe through the dining room and into the kitchen, listening for the creature. Eyes peering into every darkened corner, Buffy slips a large carving knife out of the wood block to the right of the sink.

"Don't I get a weapon?" Spike hisses, eyeing the impressive knife.

"Thought yours came with the package," she mouths back, looking around him through the flickering candlelight. "Wasn't that Lesson the First?"

"You certainly seemed to like my _package_."

"Shut up." Even in the darkness he can tell Buffy's cheeks are reddening, smell the increase of blood to her face.

"Ooh, touchy," Spike grins. "Gonna be thinkin' of me next time Soldier Boy has an itch?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I haven't let Riley touch me that way since . . ." her voice drops away, and her eyes guiltily meet Spike's. "Since he beat you," she finishes. "I've been too scared."

Surprise and hope squabble for control in Spike's head. "Slayer . . . what are you tryin' to tell me?"

"I . . . I lied, Spike. I don't . . . don't trust Riley . . . and I don't lov–"

The grotesque space monster drops from the ceiling with a high-pitched shriek, knocking Spike to the floor.

"Gahhh!"

He wrestles underneath the creature, kicking wildly and accidently knocking the knife out of Buffy's ready hand. It skids across the kitchen floor, so Buffy tackles the gruesome thing and pulls it off of Spike. Its top-heavy weight shoves her backwards into the dining room. Spike leaps to his feet, races into the kitchen, scoops up the knife, and turns on his heel, coat swishing.

"Buffy!"

He tosses the knife underhand, and she catches it deftly as the monster collides with her again, pinning her to the floor. She sinks the knife blade into its back with a spout of grayish ooze, then stabs a second time. The creature release a final ear-splitting whine and goes limp, its full weight pressing on Buffy.

"You alright, luv?" says Spike as he helps push the beast off Buffy and extends his hand to her.

"I think so."

She takes his hand, and he lifts her to her feet but does not release her fingers.

"Before we were interrupted, weren't you tellin' me something?" he asks knowingly, pulling her a bit closer.

_BANG! BANG!_ First the front door then the back door slam open, and Black Ops troopers rush in from both sides, weapons drawn. Riley leads the way, and he halts at the sight in the dining room: the monster dead on the floor, the splashes of ooze on the dislodged furniture, and Spike and Buffy – hands entwined, almost embracing. His face hardens.

"Are you okay?" he demands of Buffy, who barely looks at him.

"Have to check on Mom . . ." she whispers, pulling her fingers loose from Spike's and dashing up the stairs. Spike watches her go, then scoffs at Riley.

"You just missed a real nice time."

Riley reciprocates his glare. Graham walks in from the kitchen, removes his helmet, and stows his weapon in its holster, casting a suspicious glance at Spike.

"The house is secure," he reports.

"Good. Let's bag it," replies Riley, stepping around to turn the creature onto its front. As two of the troopers bring over a black body-bag, Buffy returns down the steps, Dawn tailing her.

"What is it?" she asks, stopping beside Spike.

"Hostile . . . _Extra_-Terrestrial," Riley answers as his men heft the creature's body into the bag and zip it closed. "Willow called it a 'Queller', and it killed five mental patients at Sunnydale General before hitching a ride back here on your car."

"And you didn't think to _call_ me when you figured out it was after my mom?" Buffy challenged, her expression suddenly furious. "It could have killed her and Dawn."

"We . . . I didn't . . ."

"Save it," she huffs, wrapping an arm protectively around her little sister. "Take your men and get out of my house."

"What about _him_?" Riley scowls behind Buffy at Spike.

"Oh, you mean the vampire who helped me kill this 'Queller' thingy?" she retorts harshly. "Who's been protecting me for weeks, despite your attempts to get in his way? Well, Riley, I don't care what he decides to do, so long as it's quiet enough to let my mom get some sleep on the night before her _brain surgery_."

Riley's usual poker-face is awash with shock. Spike resists smirking, knowing it would take very little provocation to make Agent Finn secretly order the ex-Initiative chaps to stake him the moment he's out of Buffy's sight.

"Let's move out," Riley finally orders his men, and Graham and the half-dozen other Black Ops soldiers file out through the front door. Riley glances back at Buffy as he reaches the foyer.

"I'll come to the hospital tomorrow morning."

"Fine," Buffy murmurs, gazing down at an alien goop stain on the dining room floor. Riley waits a few seconds – expecting her to look up at him – but when she doesn't, he stomps out the front door and closes it with a soft thud.

* * *

_A/N: Yay for more Spuffy lovin', though for some reason this scene was way harder to write than the one in chapter 5. Hmm. If you think this 'lime' was more of a 'lemon-lime' and the rating should be bumped up, let me know in a review._

_Next chapter will cover "Into the Woods", and that means a certain Captain Cardboard is gonna hitch a ride out'a Sunnydale! Please review and stay tuned!_


	9. Chapter 9: Addicted

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: _Finally_ got this one finished! It's extra long, so hopefully that makes up for the wait! I also got some sweet ideas for what I'll change in this AU for Season 6 material! Enjoy and please review!

**Warning: The last section is more dark than my usual writing (Spike POV vamp drug den)**.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts the first half of "Into the Woods", including both direct and slightly altered quotes, and tiny bits from "Wrecked" and "Flooded".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The pressure of her mom's uncertain health proves too much for our favorite blonde Slayer, and she sobs in the arms of our favorite blond vampire. Then, after a hasty make-out session in the kitchen, Spike and Buffy slay the Queller alien, and everyone heads to the hospital for Joyce's surgery._

* * *

Chapter 9: Addicted

The rest of the gang arrive at the hospital in time to see a smiling Joyce be wheeled into the O.R. – Giles, Willow, Tara, Xander, and Anya. Spike stands just behind Dawn and Buffy, a lump filling his throat as he watches their mum disappear behind the double-doors, sharing in their fear. As he expected, Riley hasn't showed, again.

Sunrise and mid-morning come and go, but none of them are aware of it in the fluorescent lights of the waiting room. Dawn, who barely got any further sleep after her encounter with the Queller alien, finally dozes off sprawled across three seats, her head in Buffy's lap. She strokes her little sister's long brown locks, trying to stow her own anxiety. Willow and Xander sit together nearby, since Anya apologetically left to open the Magic Box and Tara excused herself for classes. Spike and Giles pace in parallel lines between the chairs until the Watcher grows too uneasy and crosses over to Buffy.

"Can I get you anything?" he offers kindly.

"No . . . thanks, though," Buffy whispers back, hoping to let Dawn continue resting.

Giles walks back over to the pacing route, and this time Spike departs from the track they are wearing through the tile floor. He strolls over – his gait rolling and predatory only from long habit – and sinks quietly into the chair next to Buffy.

"If Red doesn't stop asking what sodding time it is, can I bite her?" he mumbles to Buffy, jerking his head at Willow across the aisle of seats.

"Of course not!" Buffy hisses, before she glances up at Spike and sees the impish smirk on his face. She gently boxes his shoulder, then drops her hand onto the armrest between them, staring at the clock herself.

"Mum's gonna be fine, pet," he assures her. "B'sides, if anything happened, you know I'd tear out the doc's throat, chip or no chip."

"How comforting," she mutters back, but the smile on the corner of her lips testifies that his efforts to cheer and relax her are working.

"Knew I could get a grin." He lays his cool hand over hers and gently squeezes, and his tender eyes are pools of ocean-blue glass.

"Thank you, Spike."

"For what, luv?"

"Staying, guarding us last night. I . . . hope the couch wasn't too uncomfortable."

"Pet, I spent the good part of a year sleeping on a stone slab in my crypt, and that was one of the softer places I've kipped in my existence. The . . . the couch was fine."

"And . . . and for everything you've done. Driving us around, helping me kill that thing . . ."

" . . . Making you forget," he suggests softly, his eyes dropping to his own hand resting over hers.

Buffy hesitates. "Spike . . . I didn't mean for that to happen . . . _again_."

"Oh, don't even start denyin' it," he grins, his voice a low, sultry whisper. "I felt you, baby. You _loved_ it. You wanted me, and you wanted me bad."

Guilt is written all over Buffy's face . . . in several languages.

"Spike, I'm so sorry. I know how you feel about me and what you wish last night meant, but it wasn't about _you_. It was about me . . . and being afraid for Mom. You were just . . . convenient."

"Yeah, don't I know it," he mutters, slightly embittered. "Funny how you're surrounded by your friends, but you're too 'fraid to show weakness in front of them, so you spill your heart to a creature you could never love."

He quickly shakes his head and rubs his thumb over the back of her hand on the armrest. "Sorry, luv. Not the right time. I'm not complaining, really. Only chance I have with you is when you're not thinking one quid about me, just about forgetting all the other rubbish in your life . . ."

She pulls her hand out from underneath his, her anxiousness reaching breaking point.

"I c-can't stand this. What's taking so long?"

"Easy, pet. It doesn't mean anything," Spike reassures her, his hand moving tenderly to her shoulder instead.

"You think?"

"Said so, didn't I? I'd be more worried if your mum was out of surgery sharpish. It might mean there wasn't much the lab coats could do."

Despite his reassurance, Buffy can't stop fretting. Her hand falls back to the armrest, and she drums on the wood with her fingernails.

"If Lil' Bit there wasn't catching a few winks, I'd happily wander off with you somewhere private," Spike whispers suggestively, his lips almost close enough to brush her ear. "Maybe blow off some steam in a closet or . . ."

"Not gonna happen," Buffy interrupts, biting back a remorseful smirk.

"Just remindin' you of the options, pet."

The swinging double-doors to the O.R. open suddenly, and Dr. Kriegel emerges, looking like a tall, balding Smurf in his blue scrubs. Buffy nudges Dawn's shoulders until she awakens, and the sisters and Spike quickly stand as the doctor approaches. Willow and Xander hop to their feet as well, and Giles halts in his track of rote walking.

"Okay," says Dr. Kriegel to Buffy, "your mom's in recovery–"

"What happened? Is she alright?" Buffy demands, full of fearful anticipation.

Half of what the surgeon says next is medical jargon, but his final few phrases draw everyone's focus: " . . .I think your mother's going to be fine. I'd consider the procedure a complete success."

Relief fills Buffy's face like the first warm, welcomed sip of morning coffee. Xander cheers and hugs Willow and Dawn around their necks. Buffy turns around – almost into Spike's arms – but corrects herself and embraces Giles instead, smiling across his shoulder at the spurned vampire. As she turns away to hug her sister and two best friends, Spike gives Giles a hearty pat on the back, only to recoil as his chip zaps him.

"Ow!" he growls under his breath. "I wasn't tryin' to hurt him! Stupid plastic bugger!"

"Oh my God, Doctor, thank you! Thank you so much!" Buffy rounds on the surgeon, enveloping him in a Slayer-strength bear hug.

"Believe me, it's my – Oh, hey! Ow!"

"Sorry, sorry!" She lets go of him and offers her hand instead, but he declines, eyeing her in slight confusion.

"Really, my pleasure. Your mom's going to be in recovery for a while – you should all go home, get some rest, relax."

With a final odd look at Buffy, Dr. Kriegel heads down another hallway with an intern. The group exchanges a second round of hugs, but only Dawn manages to spare one for Spike, gleefully throwing her arms around his cool neck for a few seconds before Willow pulls her away for a third embrace.

"Ooh! I say this calls for a . . . a communal coffee run!" the redhead proposes, her arms still tight around Dawn. "Or hot cocoa, for some of us. Espresso Pump, anybody?"

"Sounds great, Will," answers Buffy, wearing one of the first genuine smiles she's had in a long time. Spike glows just looking at her.

"I think I'll pass, let you ladies catch up," Xander shrugs. "Gotta get over to the site and then repair the Summers' back door. Riley's guys sure pack a mean kick."

"Yes, I'll go and relieve Anya so she can join you," offers Giles, picking up his tweed coat and a few other jackets from a waiting room chair, handing them around to their respective owners.

"Great!" exclaims Willow. "Tara should be almost done with class by now."

The humans – all of them still grinning widely with gratitude and relief – disperse towards the nearest exit door. Shrugging his duster back on, Spike nestles back into the chair that Buffy had been sitting in, with his legs comfortably spread out, hands folded in his lap.

"What about you?"

"Me, luv?" he looks up in surprise at Buffy's voice addressing him. Willow, Giles, Xander, and Dawn continue walking, already halfway down the hallway to the exit.

"Yeah, you. Wanna come? Can't promise any marshmallows, but they serve a mean pumpkin mocha cappuccino . . . if you like that kind of thing."

"Can't," he sighs glumly, glancing toward the clock. "Nearly high noon by now, and I left my blanket at your house. Figured I'd just stay here, find out which recovery room they put your mum in. I'll guard her like a bloodhound 'till you're back."

"Oh." Buffy almost sounds disappointed, but he doesn't dare believe it. "Well . . . do you want anything? Coffee?"

"Thanks, pet, but no. I'll help myself to an defenseless plasma bag if I get peckish." He grins. "Unless you want to give me a good-bye kiss."

"Keep dreamin'," she sighs, eyes rolling.

"Oh, I do, luv. I certainly do."

Partly flattered and mostly disturbed, Buffy turns her back on him and jogs to catch up with the others.

* * *

"Mmmm," Buffy murmurs into her frothy cup, ignoring her foam mustache. "I think my tongue bypassed 7th Heaven and went straight up to 12th Heaven."

"They must've known it was a perfect day, added some extra chocolate-y, whipped-cream-y goodness," nods Willow, sipping happily at her own Espresso Pump specialty.

"Can I try some?" Dawn pleads, looking around the outdoor table and settling on Anya as the most likely of the four adult women to cave into her demands. "_Pleeease_? Just _one_ sip and then I won't _ever_ beg or complain again!"

"Please tell me somebody recorded that on tape," sniggers Buffy.

"I can't give you coffee because you are less intimidating than Buffy, so I would rather be on your bad side than hers," Anya reasons, shrugging at the teenager. "Ask me later when Buffy isn't around to know that I'm giving it to you."

"Uh-huh, I'll never know," Buffy says amusedly. She feels like she's going to burst at the seams from sheer happiness. Mom is safe. Mom is really going to be okay. The regular-life Big Bad is defeated, and now everything can go back to being normal . . .

"Buffy?" asks Tara quietly.

"Mmhmm?" she rejoins, taking another sip of her hazelnut macchiato.

"Um . . . has, um, has Riley t-told you why he didn't show up for p-patrol a couple nights last week? We would have assumed he was w-w-with you, but . . . not with your mom the way she w-w-was."

Willow puts a concerned hand over Tara's sleeve, noting the increase in her girlfriend's stuttering and nervous twitching.

"Uh . . . no, he hasn't," says Buffy. "I didn't even _know_ that he'd been calling in absent from patrolling besides that one time last week. None of you guys got hurt without him, right?"

"Nope, we're all ship-shape," Willow answers reassuringly. "I even dusted two in one night! 'Course, I nearly fell over when the adrenaline crashed, but Giles and Xand caught me. And Riley did come and help us _last_ night with the Queller . . ."

"Yeah, I saw him last night, and he seemed . . . the usual, except with a bit extra Commando-ness 'cuz of the alien. How many nights before then has he been MIA?"

"That's the thing," shrugs Tara. "Except for when we told him about the meteor, he's never around anymore. Like . . . he's avoiding us."

"Maybe he's avoiding _you_, since you kept him from killing Spike," Anya suggests to the blonde witch, smuggling her nearly-empty mug under the table to Dawn.

"What?" Buffy gasps. Thankfully her coffee treat is down to its last few ounces, so nothing spills when the cup slithers out of her hands and lands a few inches below in its saucer on the table, clattering loudly. "When did Riley try to _kill_ Spike?"

"Oh, you know, the night after that mangy vampire stabbed you half to death, and we tracked down the lair, and Riley blew up the nest."

"Who how up the what?!"

"The tomb where that vamp and his goonies were hiding," Willow explains. "Tara found Spike and Riley outside in the graveyard right after she heard the explosion. Riley was pounding Spike pretty bad."

_His face and chest marred with purpling bruises, six broken ribs, his cheekbone . . ._

"Oh . . . right. I _did_ know about that. He came to my house that night. Spike, I mean," Buffy clarifies, staring down into the dregs of her coffee mug. "That was the night Mom told me she was having a C.A.T. scan."

"And . . . th-there's another thing, Buffy," whispers Tara, leaning a little closer to her so that Dawn – who's making a disgusted face at the unexpected bitter taste of Anya's straight-up coffee – can't hear her. "When Riley showed up l-last night, his . . . his aura was . . . all wrong."

"Like me when Faith –?"

"No, not quite. Everybody has a sort-of . . . color. It fluctuates from time to time, but it's fairly steady. Don't laugh, but Riley's color is usually a yellowish brown, kinda beige. I call it 'Corn' in my head."

Buffy smirks but resists giggling. "But last night it was . . . ?"

"It was darker, and redder . . . almost a burnt orange color. It's not as bad as when his heart went all wonky; it was blood red then. But . . . something's definitely not right."

"Thanks for telling me, Tara. No clue what it means . . . and even less clue how I'll ask him about it, but I will. Count on it."

Pretending to seal her promise with a toast, Buffy swirls the final sip of her macchiato in the bottom of the mug and then tips it into her mouth.

"It's almost one, we've got class," Willow reminds her girlfriend, standing and reaching into her purse to put a tip on their table.

"Well, I think it's inexcusable that your boyfriend didn't come to the hospital to support you this morning," Anya comments as she stands and scoots her chair in. "If my mother hadn't been already dead for a thousand years, and was having surgery, and Xander didn't show up to be with me while I waited, I would probably dump him. But of course, I'm not going to dump Xander."

"And I don't want to dump Riley," Buffy mumbles, also getting to her feet. "We're not perfect, but we've been doing so well . . . at least _I_ thought so. Maybe I should call him, see if he's free . . . say, Anya, any chance you could take Dawn tonight? Let her spend the night at Xander's with you?"

Dawn looks up, disgruntled with Anya due to the black coffee she'd been tricked into tasting. "Aww. Do I gotta?"

"We're ordering Chinese," says the ex-demon temptingly. Dawn needs no further bribe.

"Yes! I'll go to Xander's!"

* * *

It's 1:15pm by the time Buffy – now alone – returns to the hospital and asks an idle intern on the O.R. floor where her mom was moved to. After dialing Riley's number into the hospital payphone and leaving him a brief voicemail, she takes the elevator up to the correct floor and walks down another sterile hallway, reading the digits on the rooms she passes. She's getting close when she happens to glance forward and comes to a screeching halt.

There, sitting in a decidedly uncomfortable-looking chair, is Spike, fast asleep, his chest gently rising and falling to a long unneeded pace. His right cheek rests on his shoulder, and his arms are tight around his black t-shirt, like he's hugging himself . . . like he's lonely. There's a child-like gentleness on his pale face, no hint of the demon's visage hiding underneath that smooth forehead. His mouth is slightly open, and his ebony lashes flutter as he slumbers, hinting that he's caught in a dream. And Buffy remembers his aggravating but earnest remark right before she'd left the hospital – that he dreamed of her, fantasized probably. Make that _certainly_.

"Like a bloodhound, huh?" she says, standing right in front of him.

Spike's blue eyes snap open, and his head jerks up, hands springing into a defensive position. Realizing he's been caught with his guard down, he repentantly meets Buffy's gaze.

"Sorry . . . bit knackered. Had a rough night, what with the X-Files bugger an' all."

"No big. So . . . she's in there?" Buffy asks, looking through the blinds into the ward. "Is she awake yet?"

"Don't think so, luv. Steady heartbeat, though. Nothin' to fret over. It'd take a lot more than a little lump in the noggin to stop a Summers girl."

A long way from reassured, Buffy sits in the vacant chair to Spike's right. Almost immediately, cold fingers knead gently against the back of her shoulder.

"Don't, Spike."

"Why not?"

"Riley . . ." She leaves the excuse hanging, undecided on exactly what it was about Riley that would prohibit this behavior between them. _Riley might show up here and see us. Riley is my boyfriend and having Spike touch me would bother him. Riley hasn't been here for me, but Spike has_ . . . No, wait, that doesn't help.

"Does this feel nice?" he whispers as the pad of his thumb digs a small, slow circle into a muscle at the base of her skull. Until he'd touched it, Buffy hadn't realized how tight and stiff her neck really was. Capitulating, she leans her head back against the wall above her chair and quietly sighs.

"You know it does. Still doesn't mean I should let . . . you . . . Mmmm . . ."

He'd pivoted in his chair so that both his long-fingered hands could access her shoulders, massaging with surprising skill, smoothing out kinks in her muscles that she didn't even know had been there. It's as though she's been carrying marble-sized dumbbells all over her upper back, and his probing fingertips are metal-detectors, seeking them out and unearthing them.

"Better, pet?" he asks tentatively after four or five minutes, when every traceable knot is gone.

"Loads. I can't believe how relaxed I feel. Gosh . . . it's like all the tension's just left my body."

"That's the idea, Goldilocks," he smiles, twirling a strand of her hair as his left hand returns to his side. The other lingers at the nape of her neck, gently scratching her hairline like her mom used to do when she was a preschooler, before Dawn came and there wasn't time for . . . oh, right. There was yet another memory warped by the monks in their desperation to protect the Key from Glory. For all Buffy knew, her mom had brushed her hair and given her neck-scratching massages well into high school.

The door to her mom's recovery room opens, and Buffy instinctively swats Spike's hand off of her.

"Miss Summers?" says the nurse, half-exiting the room. "Your mother's awake. You can see her now."

"Thank you," Buffy nods, standing. The nurse walks away, and Buffy reaches for the door handle.

"I'll just wait here, luv," Spike mumbles, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin over his interlaced fingers. "Go see Mumsie."

"You . . . you can come inside in a bit, if you want. I know Mom's fond of you."

"Nah, wouldn't interrupt for the world, but sweet of you to offer. Go on. I'll pass the good news on if any of the Scoobies pop by."

Smiling at him, Buffy opens the recovery room door and – tearing up with joy – approaches her mother . . .

* * *

As the afternoon progresses into evening, well-wishing visitors are ushered by ones and twos into Joyce's room. Willow and Tara produce a bouquet of her favorite flowers from midair, instantly brightening the bland ward. Dawn smuggles in a chocolate bar for her mom, which Joyce promises to eat as soon as they let her off the Jell-o diet. Giles also brings flowers, as well as the reassurance that her art gallery is being excellently managed in her absence. Anya offers Joyce a discount in the Magic Box – "Twenty percent off an item worth $17.99 or less, or $2.00 off any order of chicken's feet" – and Xander, the last to stop by, reports that all damage caused by the commandos' intrusion last night has been cleared up. Once again, Riley's absence is prominent, the Hellmouth version of the elephant in the room. Buffy slips out to call him a second time, only to hear the _beep_ of his answering machine and hang up without leaving a message. She'd never say it out-loud, but he'd starting to remind her of her Dad.

At 8:00pm, a nurse enters and apologetically informs them that visiting hours are over for the day. Saying their goodbyes, the group trickles apart to their respective homes, and several blocks go by before Buffy realizes she is walking back to 1630 Revello Drive alone . . . with Spike.

"Isn't your crypt _that_ way?" she mumbles at him.

"Didn't know if you planned on patrollin' tonight. Thought I'd lend a . . . hand."

Buffy feels something cool brush against her fingertips and quickly crosses her arms over her chest.

"Aww, pet, don't be like that . . ."

"You are _not_ holding my hand, Spike. I am Riley's girlfriend. Any mistakes I might have made last night doesn't change anything."

Spike grumbles something under his breath that sounds distinctly like, "_mistakes, my ass_," but then he is silent for the next few blocks, seemingly lost in thought until they turn the corner onto Revello Dr.

"Buffy," he finally says, his voice low and gravely serious, "there's something I think I should tell you . . . about Finn. I've been waiting to say anything you 'cause I was hoping he would either kick the habit or 'fess up to you himself, but I can't bear it any longer, you not knowing. And since your mum's on the mend . . . seems as good a time as any."

She stops walking and faces him ferociously, planting both hands on her hips.

"What? What habit?" she demands, remembering Tara's observations about Riley's altered aura. "What's he been up to? Why is he never around anymore?"

"Let a fella' get a word in, luv." Spike readies himself. "Buffy, he's . . ."

"Buffy!"

Charging toward them is the man himself, his long-sleeve polo buttoned up to his throat – to hide the bite marks, Spike deduces.

"What are you doing with _him_?" Riley glowers, his words addressed to Buffy while his grey-green eyes stare spitefully at the vampire.

"Walking back to my house. It isn't my fault he wouldn't leave," Buffy pouts dramatically, thinking that if she can just keep this to a light banter, she won't be reminded of Riley's violence towards Spike a few weeks ago, won't be tempted to take a stance with the vampire against her boyfriend.

"Well, get lost, Chip-head."

"Wanker," Spike growls back, standing squarely in the middle of the sidewalk. Buffy rolls her eyes and takes a step toward Riley.

"Look, he wasn't making trouble, but – hey! Riley, what –?"

He seizes her arm, turn on his heel, and heads hurriedly toward her house. Almost dragging her up the driveway, Riley opens the door, pulls her inside, and immediately locks it, checking through the window for any sign that Spike continued following them.

"Riley, what's going on –?"

Buffy's voice falls flat as she sees the living room: a candlelit dinner laid out on the coffee table, the chairs pushed against the walls to make a clear space in the center, a CD player in the corner with soft acoustic music issuing from it. It's . . . _too wonderful to be true_, supplies a pessimistic voice in her head.

"Riley . . . I don't know what to say . . ."

"I wanted tonight to be special for you," he explains sheepishly, following her into the room.

"It's more than special. It's perfect," Buffy gushes, wrapping him in a warm but gentle hug, ignoring that twinge of reservation she keeps feeling whenever she touches him now. Mom's okay. _We're_ okay. Whatever the thing Tara saw about his aura, it'll be fine . . . it'll go back to being normal . . .

As they sway to the slow romantic tune, Riley says something into her ear, complementing her, calling her incredible.

"Not really," she shrugs, arms still around his waist. "I was just covering for the weepy chicken within."

"Don't sell yourself short. You stayed strong the whole time, Buffy. You never even cried."

"Oh, I cried alright. I cried so hard I didn't think I'd be able to stop." _I cried with Spike, clutching him, needing _him_ to comfort me_ . . .

Riley leans away slightly, confusion – and a miniscule tone of accusation – etched on his face.

"But . . . why didn't you . . ." he flounders, and finally drops the question altogether. "You should have let me be there for you."

"You weren't around," Buffy mumbles. She hasn't let go of him, and now tries to hide her face by pressing her cheek to his broad chest. "I've barely seen you for three weeks. I . . . I thought you would come to the hospital this morning, or afternoon."

"You seemed so angry with me last night. I didn't want us to fight in front of Dawn."

"That . . . that was decent of you."

Riley remains silent for a long twenty seconds as they resume their swaying dance, and when he speaks again his voice is stiff, military.

"Did Spike stay here last night?"

"Yes," Buffy answers without hesitation and feels Riley's muscles tighten, not to draw her closer into his arms, but to repel her soft embrace.

"Did you sleep with him?"

Aghast, Buffy shoves Riley away from her. "Of course I didn't! How could you think . . . I would never . . ."

But she can't say it, can't lie and say that she didn't almost lose control in the kitchen, grabbing at Spike – not out of any kind of love for the vampire who had made her life difficult on so many occasions, just because he was there . . . and he was willing . . . and he loved her without reservation . . . and he let her be just_ Buffy_ and not the invincible, incredible Slayer everyone expects her to be all the time.

"I was with Mom and Dawn all night," she finally says, her tone stern, maintaining a two-foot distance between her and Riley. "Spike was down here. He was _protecting_ us, in case the Queller demon had a twin, or in case some mugger decided to take advantage of the back door your Storm Troopers plowed through."

"_I_ would have stayed, but you ordered me out of the house!"

"You put my mom in danger because you couldn't take thirty seconds to pick up a phone and tell me there was a slime-spitting killer alien after her!" Buffy screeches. "I'm not the one whose been running off to who-know-where and not telling anyone where I've been!"

"You keep me at a distance, Buffy. You didn't even call me when your mom went into the hospital."

"Oh, geez, I'm sorry I couldn't take care of _you_ when I thought my mom was _dying_!"

"It's about _me_ taking care of _you_! It's about letting me in, so you don't have to be on top of everything all the time –"

"But I _do_. That's part of what a Slayer is." All her energy depleting, she stares into his face, realizing they've only been skirting around the biggest issue, the one she most hoped they had been able to move past. "And that's really what this is about. You can't handle that I'm stronger than you."

With an angry sigh, Riley turns toward the door. "I'm going out. Enjoy your dinner."

Before she can even force words to travel from her brain to her mouth, he's gone, leaving her alone in the candlelit room. She's too stunned to follow him, too overwhelmed to cry, too heart-sick to eat. She walks numbly into the kitchen and takes out a roll of clear plastic wrap, messily covers the two plates, and pops them in the fridge. Blowing out the candles one at a time, Buffy climbs the stairs to her room, strips off her brown sweater and jeans, and hides under her covers – trying vaguely to remember the last time she and Riley had been really okay.

* * *

Spike lingers on the lawn, watching the dim light flickering in the window of the Summers' living room. He hears Buffy and Riley's raised voices, but can't pick out their conversation, just enough to know that their tones are angry, not amorous. He lights a cigarette and leans against his trusty Spyin' Tree, which grants him clear views of both Buffy's bedroom window and the front door, but swathes him in enough shadow that most human eyes wouldn't notice him – dark leather against a dark tree trunk.

Whatever row the Slayer's having with Soldier Boy seems to come to an end, because the front door opens and Riley stomps out, slamming it behind him. Spike drops his cigarette to the ground and stamps out the stub, hoping Finn didn't catch a glimpse of the glowing red tip. But Riley doesn't even give a backwards glance in Spike's direction. He reaches the end of the driveway, furtively hikes his coat collar up around his neck, and heads toward downtown Sunnydale, his pace brisk. Spike hesitates for a moment, and then squares his shoulders and follows Riley, sticking to the shadows about fifty feet behind him.

Somewhere in the back of his head, probably near the part of his brain where the metal blighter runs the show, Spike had suspected Riley's destination to be this place: the darkest of dank alleyways, the dilapidated warehouse, the back staircase into – without a question – the most sordid place in town, the joint where adrenaline-junkie humans pay the lowlifes of the vampire world to bite them. Quickening his step, Spike silently opens the back door in time to see Riley disappear at the top of the interior stairwell, a skinny female vampire dressed only in ratty underwear hanging on his arm.

Spike bristles, enraged that Captain Oblivious could walk away from the perfection that is Buffy on the night she most deserves to be happy, and instead toddle off to get his real kicks from these sick whores. And suddenly he wants to know every detail, the true depth of Finn's depravity, like a briefcase full of evidence that he could throw down in front of a judge and say, "This man abandoned my girl and ought to be damned."

Spike shoots cold glances around the lower room. A vamp in a velvet jacket counts money on a table, while three or four other vampires in various stages of undress lie on mattresses and ripped couches, curled up with hunger and drug withdrawal. Two human men are passed out in opposite corners of the room, and a third sits in a hard-backed chair while a female straddles him, sucking at his neck.

He focuses on the closest one of the vampire sluts – a girl who, even in her human life, had probably been beautiful, but was now wasted to a jaundiced skeleton from hunger and drugs. Her corset and stockings fit poorly on her bony frame, excess fabric bunching around her waist and ankles. All in all, she looks like just saying "sunlight" in front of her would dust the poor wretch.

"C'mere, pet," he whispers, letting his voice drop into the low, tender tone he'd formerly used to calm Drusilla out of her wilder fits. The frightened addict shuffles over to him, and he slips his right arm out of its duster sleeve.

"Give you a taste if you tell me 'bout that boy who just came in an' went upstairs."

The vampire girl pales and shakes her head, amber eyes sunken deep in her skull. "Can't. Worth too much. Boss'll hurt me."

Spike peers over at the money-counting vampire who seems to be running the show, the equivalent of a brothel's pimp, and dressed for the part.

"Won't get you in trouble, sweetness. Just say how often he comes in 'ere, you can have a merry little drink, and I'll be off."

Again, she shakes her head.

"Not even for Aurelius blood?" he asks, drawing one tempting fingernail across his own wrist, not enough to break the skin, just to focus her attention. "Mighty potent, bet'cha never had such old family blood in your life. Just tell me how many times the Army boy's been here. Must be a regular, if he's worth so much to bossman."

Mouth watering, the starving prostitute looks down Spike's arm, listening to the borrowed blood running through it, sensing the flavor through flaring nostrils. Her eyes remain on his wrist when she finally speaks in a gravelly voice, like a chain-smoker.

"Been . . . been coming about a m-month. Four or f-five nights a week. Sometimes more. Been here twice just today. Usually stays a c-couple hours. Serves two or three of the boss's favorites."

"Thanks a'plenty, pet. Have a taste now, there's a good girl."

She falls to her knees and grips his wrist in both hands. Her bite is rough and clumsy, chomping more than piercing. Spike's head jerks back with a wince, and he lets his breath out in a slow hiss as the whore suckles his wrist greedily, drawing gulp after gulp with more ferocity than he expected. Poor thing's been living off the vampire version of stale bread and water, and now she's getting a three-course steak dinner.

"Steady on," he murmurs, gripping a handful of her hair in his other hand. To any onlooker, their positions would appear erotic – the woman kneeling before him, her face half hidden by the folds of his long leather coat, his hand cupping the back of her head as it bobs, feeding desperately. But Spike takes no pleasure from this act, feeling only pity for the pathetic creature at his feet and a torrent of disgust and anger at Soldier Boy upstairs.

"Enough," he growls softly, pulling back on the wretch's hair until her fangs and lips detach from his wrist. At the sight of her tear-streaked cheeks, he almost offers her another sip but thinks better of it. If Riley's visits usually last two hours, he's got to preserve his own strength – enough to run back to Revello Drive and give Buffy the time to make up her mind whether or not she wants to come and see how low her lover has stooped.

"Wipe your face," he orders, and the vampire girl drags her hands under her eyes and smudges the dribble of blood that has escaped the corner of her mouth. "Now go sit quiet 'till someone calls you. Don't make yourself sick."

"Thank you," she mouths, more tears leaking from her amber eyes and forming shiny streaks down the layers of make-up and grime on her face. Obediently, she crawls away to one of the mangled couches and sits with her knees tucked to her chest, as though to spread the warmth of his blood in her belly to her cold limbs.

Snatching a wisp of cloth off the floor, Spike slips back out into the alleyway and uses a streetlamp to survey his right wrist. The two half-moon punctures reach clear to the bone, when he tests moving his fingers, they barely budge. The jagged cuts won't leave scars on him, but they'll look ugly and itch like mad until they heal.

"Right genius, you are," he curses himself, wrapping the fabric scrap around the wound. Shrugging his tingling arm back into his sleeve, Spike sprints down the alleyway and out onto the main street, running for the girl he loves.

_To be continued . . ._

* * *

_A/N: The scene with Spike and the prostitute was something that just randomly came to me as I was trying to finish this chapter. Though it's dark and sad, it shows Spike's merciful side, the part of him that is gaining strength over his demon because he's so in love with Buffy. Did I succeed? Let me know in reviews, pretty please! Part two of "Into the Woods" is next!_


	10. Chapter 10: Truth and Lies

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Realized I haven't dished out kudos in a while, so here's a huge thank-you-with-whipped-cream-and-a-cherry-on-top to _Said the Silence_, _UltimateLoveStorys, Buffyfan72, Loverswalk89, Toniboo_, _TieDyeJackson, Rabbit-moon,_ "em" and other guests, and everyone else who's given me a review! I can't express enough how much I appreciate your feedback.

I also realized there were a couple minor inconsistencies in the previous chapter – mostly involving things Buffy and her friends had communicated to each other; shame on me for not re-reading or editing carefully. I fixed a couple parts but otherwise, let's just go with it. =)

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts the middle of "Into the Woods", including both direct and slightly altered quotes, and tiny bits from "Dead Things", "Crush", and "Out of My Mind", and one altered line from James Marsters' song "Angel". This installment got so long that I split it in half.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Joyce's surgery is a success. Over coffee, Tara informs Buffy that there's more wrong with Riley than meets the eye. Spike snoozes outside Joyce's hospital room, then walks Buffy home, only for Captain Cardboard to barge in. Riley proceeds to botch up a romantic dinner with Buffy, and Spike tracks him to the vampire whorehouse and learns from one of the girls that he's a very frequent customer._

* * *

Chapter 10: Truth and Lies

_Shouldn't – be – so – out – of – breath! _Spike thinks exasperatedly as he dashes up the driveway of 1630 Revello Drive, panting and nursing a stitch in his side. At the front door he pauses, wondering if Buffy locked it at any point after Treacherous Tin Soldier's departure. It wouldn't stop him anyway – there's the back door; there's the lattice up to Dawn's room, temporarily empty since the Lil' Bit is kipping at the whelp's place; there's even Buffy's bedroom window if he can manage to plead his case before being staked. Cursing his wrist injury, Spike uses both hands and turns the knob slowly, then slips inside the house, and closes and locks the front door in case Finn makes an early return début.

Cat-like, he pounces up the stairs two-at-a-time and lifts his hand to knock on Buffy's bedroom door. A split second before his hand touches the wood, he retracts it, deliberating.

"Oh, sod it," he whispers, then cautiously twists the handle, relieved when neither the knob nor the hinges give him away.

And then he's inside, gazing down on her . . . on golden hair rippling over pillows, on bare arms and shoulders visible above the covers, on her smiling slumbering face dappled with moonlight. Standing in the shadows of the doorway, he's paralyzed with ecstasy and misery in equal measure, that phrase ringing through his head again: _to be so close to her and not have her, never have her_ . . .

Buffy stirs, her smile widening slightly while her eyes remain closed.

"Spike?" she breathes, still slumbering .

His mouth falls open. Almost instantly, conflicted voices in his head start yelling advice in rapid concession: _Go to her! _Isn't really me she's thinkin' of. _Said your name, didn't she? Not the boy's_. Slip of the tongue, must be. _Ever heard of a bloke called Freud?_ Oh, God, why do I have to be on a sodding time crunch _tonight_?!

"It's me, pet," he murmurs reluctantly, admitting to himself that if all goes according to his expectations and she sees Riley's true nature, at least there's be one less barrier between them . . . just the remaining insurmountable blockade of her own indifferent feelings, not to mention friends, family, Brooding Poofter Ex . . .

"Spike!"

Waking with a start, Buffy clutches her sheets to her chest, eyes wide and – _dare he believe it?_ – gleaming for just a fraction of a second. He smells the blood rushing to her cheeks even before the flare of color shows on her face.

"What the . . . How did you get in?"

"Soldier Boy left the front door unlocked. Now, before you get it in your pretty head to stake me, hear me out. I wouldn't be here if I didn't have a good reason. As usual, I'm here to help you and . . . are you naked under there?"

A quick embarrassed smile flashes across Buffy's reddening face. "You wish. Get out."

"No, I'm serious – not about the naked part, I mean . . ."

"Out, Spike," she interrupts, adjusting a thin white strap on her shoulder. Oh, so perhaps Buffy isn't quite in-the-buff, but she's sure bloody close. He can't help but give an astonished grin.

"Were . . . were you dreamin' of me, Slayer?"

"No!" she snorts, seemingly fitting _How-could-you-even-think-such-a-preposterous-idea? _ into that single syllable.

Unconvinced, Spike crosses his arms to keep his duster coat-flaps layered across his front, hiding much he's struggling to keep his physical excitement in check. The thought of her fantasizing about him is enough to make his jeans uncomfortably tight.

"I . . . I need to tell you something, Buffy. It's very important. You need to hear this."

She hesitates, assessing his solemn tone, but judges that he isn't just messing with her.

"Fine," she concedes and adjusts her handful of bosom-shielding blankets. "Turn around."

With a quick roll of his eyes, he obeys and then hears the rustle of the covers and a bureau drawer open as Buffy grabs for more clothes. Just listening to her getting dressed is enough to make every fiber in his body tense up, and his mouth opens in a silent gasp. His already form-fitting jeans are strangling him.

"Uh . . . I'm just gonna . . . step out, pet. I'll be in the dining room when you're decent."

Still respectfully facing away from her, he opens the door, hurriedly exits, and closes it behind him, leaning against it for a moment until he calms himself down. He slinks down to the dining room and pulls out the chair at the head of the table, collapsing into it with a low groan. What wouldn't he give for just one peek at his beloved . . .

After what seems like ten minutes, Buffy joins him, now dressed in a green sweater and khaki slacks, slipping a denim jacket around her shoulders.

"Okay. Mind telling me why it was _so_ important for you to interrupt my oh-so-essential beauty sleep? And, please frame it by saying it's not just a dumb alibi so we can be alone together in my house."

"I promise this isn't just an excuse for me to be alone with you," Spike complies. "Though, now you mention it, you shouldn't put such bloody tempting ideas in my head, Slayer. Wouldn't have left your bedroom willingly if I'd thought of that."

Buffy turns vividly pink again. To avoid eye-contact, she glances down at his clasped hands. "Did something happen to your wrist?"

"Call it my finder's fee," he sighs. "Maybe . . . maybe you'd better sit down, luv."

Warily, she hunkers down in the chair closest to him and yawns. "Is this gonna take all night? Buffy sleepy."

"Depends on whether or not you believe what I'm 'bout to tell you," he answers candidly, then leans forward, his folded hands on the table between them. "First off, just to put my cards on the table as it were, right now I don't care what you think about me, pet. This hasn't got anything to do with me, except that I'm the one bringin' you the news. I don't care if you insist by heaven and earth that you'd rather shack up with a cactus than with me. This is solely about showin' you Soldier Boy's true colors. You're owed that much if you think you . . . you love him."

Looking substantially more worried, Buffy crosses her arms and leans against the back of her chair so she's at a slightly higher angle than Spike.

"I'm listening."

Spike sighs deeply, feeling a knot of fear growing in his gut. "Buffy . . . for the last month, Riley has been going to see vampires . . . and he's been paying them to bite him."

One of her eyebrows moves about an inch higher toward her hairline.

"Mmhmm," she murmurs, teetering on the verge of skeptical giggles. "That's . . . that's a new one. Gosh, Spike, you _are_ desperate."

"I'm telling you the truth," he scowls.

"Uh-huh, sure ya are." She's outright laughing now, one hand half-covering her mouth.

"Buffy, I swear . . ."

"_Paying_ them to _bite_ him? Do you even _hear_ how stupid you sound?"

"Mock me all you want, pet, but it's real. I'm surprised this is the first you've heard of the practice. Humans want the high, they want the danger, so they go to vampires and let them bite and drink – not enough to kill, of course, just enough to make the poor sobs come back for more. Vampires get free blood plus enough quid to buy drugs or God knows what else. Joints spring up in the dankest, seediest corners of any city with a decent vamp count. I'd bet my prized duster that your Watcher's heard of places like the one I caught your boy sneakin' into tonight."

Bringing Giles into the conversation sobers Buffy up slightly, but her disbelieving grin remains firmly fixed.

"So you think Riley, who _absolutely_ hates vampires, is now offering himself up as a snack to buddies of yours? That story's about as holey as the cross I'm considering beating you over the head with."

"Hey! They're no chums of mine. 'Member last Thanksgiving, when I showed up on Ol' Rupert's doorstep, chipped and starvin'? I could've gone to a place like this, sussed out whether or not the chip would let me bite a human if they were askin' for it, if I wasn't tryin' to hurt them. But my pride wouldn't let me. I'd rather shrivel up to nothin' but dry bones. I'd've staked myself or chained myself to a pole outside and burned to dust before stoopin' to this level. These types are the bottom-feedin' scum of my kind. They're pathetic animals. You understand me, pet?"

Something – maybe the disgust in his tone as he mentions his fellow demons – wipes the grin off Buffy's face.

"So . . . just assuming your story is true, and Riley's been going there for a month . . . why didn't you tell me as soon as you found out?"

"Thought about it," he shrugs, looking into her green eyes by the moonlight filtering in through the narrow windows on the front door. "But with your mum feelin' out of sorts, and Glory poking around after the Nibblet, I didn't want to add another mess to your troubles. 'Sides, had to figure out a way to break it to you, gentle-like. Didn't want to come squealin' to you like a rat, tellin' you your lover's got himself addicted to other women."

Buffy stands up so quickly that her chair falls over with a _crash_, her face livid.

"That's a lie!"

"What'd the bleedin' hell I do now?"

"He's not going to see other women! Riley wouldn't cheat on me."

"Female vampires, pet," he amends, though not enough to calm her. "Far as I know, he's only there for the bites, though I've got a hunch other services are offered."

"You're a sick liar."

"I am not a liar, Slayer. Bought the truth with my blood."

He rips off the dirty bandage from around his right wrist and shows Buffy the messy bite mark, still glistening. She stands over him, suddenly very still, the blush long gone from her cheeks.

"One of the poor bints told me he's been coming almost every night. Ever feel him slip away after you've been shagging? Notice him sportin' any bandages in curious places? You didn't think he was suddenly gunning for turtlenecks to come back in vogue, did you, luv? He's been hidin' this from you, lyin' to you."

"He would never do something like this," she whispers, more to herself than to Spike. Could this be the underlying cause behind the change in Riley's aura that Tara had warned her about? "He hates demons. He'd never put himself at the _mercy_ of them."

"If I'm lyin', I'd let you cast the first stake, pet," Spike murmurs, wrapping his wrist again. "I had the feelin' you wouldn't take me at my word, so . . . if you want proof, I could take you there now. Catch him in the act."

She glares into his steady, azure eyes, wishing he didn't look so honest, as though he has nothing to lose.

"I . . . I don't believe you. I have to see for myself."

"Thought you might say that. Right then. Let's go, Slayer. We have to move if we want to get there in time."

He stands, ushers her into the foyer, and swipes her keys off the rack beside the front door before leading her out into the brisk November night. Neither of them speak as they traverse the empty streets of Sunnydale, but when they reach the alley and Buffy sees the back stairwell into the squalid-looking flophouse, she hesitates.

"Nearly there, luv," Spike whispers, no hint of gloating or glee on his face.

"If this is a trap, I'm _so_ gonna stake you."

He gives no answer, just continues walking ahead of her, mounting the stairs, and opening the door. The sewage-like smell alone nearly causes Buffy to turn tail and run fleeing back to Revello Drive. Trash is scattered all over the floor of the main room, smudged graffiti covers the walls, and in the corners men and women lie twisted together on mattresses, lips pressing to throats, elbows, or wrists. She shivers reflexively, hand going to her back pocket, and in dismay realizes she didn't bring a stake.

"Don't stop, Slayer," Spike whispers. "This isn't what we're here for."

He gently lays a hand on her back, steering Buffy toward the staircase to the second level. She notices one of the unoccupied vampire girls stare fixatedly at Spike, who returns the pitiful creature's gaze with an infinitesimal shake of his head, his eyes cold and silencing.

Just as Buffy's feet reach the stairs, she feels Spike pulled violently away from her.

"What do you think you're doing?" growls a burly vampire, his fangs inches from Spike's nose.

"Just havin' a look, mate. Keep it down."

He turns to join Buffy on the stairs, but the vamp bouncer yanks on the shoulder of his duster again.

"You can't go up there!"

His arm a swift blur, Spike seizes the larger vampire by the throat and hurls him to the ground, then straightens his own collar.

"I said _keep it down_," he snarls. Pace increasing, he guides Buffy up the rest of the stairs to an even messier second floor, a hallway with private rooms on either side. The door at the very end is slightly ajar, and Spike pauses as they reach it.

"I'm sorry, Buffy," he murmurs quietly, indicating the room beyond the door. "You needed to know."

Gripped with newfound fear, she shoves past him and enters the room, and then the whole world seems to drop away from under her feet. Ten steps away, Riley sits on a filthy mattress, his chest bare. Curled up in his lap is a stick-thin vampire woman in little more than underwear, her mouth gnawing earnestly at the crook of Riley's elbow.

"Harder," he orders harshly, watching rivulets of blood escape from around the vampire's teeth and trickle down his arm.

Buffy gives a tiny shocked gasp, and only then does Riley look up towards her, his face stiffening. Spike glances between them, not crowing or teasing, just waiting for Buffy's reaction. Her face is consumed with revulsion and betrayal.

"Buffy–" Riley begins, but she turns away, bolting for the stairs. Spike lingers only long enough to watch Riley shove the trashy vampire girl aside and scramble unsteadily to his feet, then races to follow Buffy, reaching the bottom of the steps just as the vampire pimp blocks her path.

"Hey!_ Hey!_"

The den leader's shouts turn to a disgruntled squeal as Buffy – her stride unbroken – hurls him into the air and into the opposite wall. With Spike close on her heels, she smashes open the back door, pelts down the rickety stairs, and rushes down the alley. Blinded by tears, she lets her feet guide her over pavement and eventually to the grassy turf of Restfield Cemetery, seeking something to kill, a beast she can take her pain and misery and heartache out on.

"Buffy! Buffy, wait!"

Finally catching up to her, Spike reaches out to snag her arm, but she swings around using all her built-up momentum and slaps his cheek with a _crack_ that echoes around the moonlit cemetery, seemingly louder in the cool, damp night air.

"How could you?! How could you ruin everything, just when I _finally_ thought my life wasn't so freaking screwed up?!"

"I'm sorry, Buffy! I ballsed it up, showin' you tonight. I'm sorry!"

She slaps him again. He takes the blow mutely, closing his eyes, offering no defense.

"You're a pig, Spike! A selfish pig! What, did you think I'd jump in your arms and _thank_ you?!"

"I couldn't very well just stand by and let him keep doin' this to you."

"_One_ night! One friggin' night!"

"He's been comin' here for a _month_, Buffy, maybe longer. I couldn't take it, lettin' him lie to you over and over, you thinkin' he was faithful."

Face resolute, Spike takes a risky step toward her, only to feel the flat of her palm against his cheek a third time.

"I hate you!" Buffy screeches, tears cascading down her face.

"I know, pet. If I could do it over . . ." He pauses, staring into her streaming eyes, a sudden burst of tenacity filling him. "If I could do it over, I'd tell you everything the first night I knew he was whoring himself out to these deadbeats. I love you."

_Slap!_ His cheek is glowing peach-colored now, blood rising to the surface.

"Don't say that! Don't _ever_ say that again! I am _never _going to be with you! You're a monster!"

"Can't help what I feel, luv."

"You're a demon! A disgusting demon! You don't _feel_ anything except bloodlust!"

"You think I haven't tried _not_ to love you?"

"Try harder!"

Her closed fist hooks across his face, but in her teary, horrified anger her aim is slightly off, and her blow skims his cheekbone without causing any damage.

"Buffy . . ."

"I want you out of this town! I want you off this PLANET! You don't EVER come near me, my friends and family again! EVER!"

"Can't stop me."

"Oh, hell-yes I can! I'll stake you! I should've done it years ago!"

"Go on, then," he goads her in a quiet voice, spreading his arms out parallel to the ground, offering her his unprotected chest. "Do it. Bloody just do it, Slayer. Kill me."

"I will!"

"Nothin' stoppin' you, luv. Kill me. Kill me, Buffy."

Shaking with sobs, she cocks back her empty fist to slug him again. Their eyes lock – grief and shock in the green, loneliness and defeat in the blue – and then Buffy gives up, sinks to her knees, and wraps her arms around herself.

"D-d-d-don't h-h-have a . . . s-s-stake," she chokes out, swaying as deep moans wrack her body.

"Shall I go and fetch you one, eh?" Spike asks impassively, letting his hands fall slowly back to his sides, every cell of him wanting to hold her, comfort her . . .

"Just g-g-get the hell away from me. If I s-s-see you again, I'll s-s-stake you."

He looks down on her with nothing but heartbreaking gentleness, then gives the surrounding graveyard a scrutinizing glance.

"I'm not leavin' you here at the mercy of whatever beastie wants a go at the Slayer," he murmurs.

"I don't n-n-need your help, n-n-never n-n-need you."

"I know you don't, pet, but you're vulnerable right now. Seein' your farm boy in there's shaken you up. I won't budge 'nless you promise to go straight home and lock the door. Let the wild things roam tonight."

Already knowing she'll refuse it, Spike bends down to her level and offers her his hand. Her face awash with tears, Buffy stares at the pale fingers floating in front of her, then in a burst of movement shoves them out of her line of vision, scrambles to her feet, and flees from the cemetery. Spike watches her retreating figure pelt away into the darkness until even his vampire vision isn't strong enough to keep track of her. Then, head bowed and shoulders slumping, he sets out for his crypt, rubbing the back of one hand over his stinging cheek.

Yesterday night and tonight burn in vivid contrast in Spike's mind as he walks toward his meager dwelling: on the eve of her mum's surgery, Buffy _did_ need him, the only one strong enough to carry her pain for her, the only one who wouldn't think less of her for having a vulnerable moment, for being a normal terrified girl . . . and now, just when she thought her world was righted again, he'd pulled the rug out from under her feet. Of course she has the right to hate him . . . he wouldn't blame her if she went as far as to ring up the wicca-lovers and have them revoke his invite to her house.

Despising his poor choice in timing, Spike shuffles into his dark crypt, swings the door shut behind him, shucks his coat, and sinks into his armchair, pulling a bottle of whiskey out from under the seat cushion. He works out the cork and is about to take a swig when the door to his crypt flies open with an almighty _CRASH_ and Riley storms inside, bristling with fury.

"What took you?" Spike huffs, surly. "Guess it takes a while to get back to full strength after those bites."

His face twisted in rage, Riley grabs two handfuls of Spike's black shirt, yanks him up from the chair, and slams him into the closest column.

"Hey, hey! Let's be reasonable about this!" Spike pants.

"You may have noticed, Spike" –Riley plows his fist across the vampire's jaw, the swift _thud_ echoing around the stone tomb, then lifts him up by his shirt again– "I left reasonable about three exits back."

"We only came because we care about you, friend," Spike says coldly, licking his split lip. "You need help. Givin' up a golden angel for the scum of the underworld? Clearly not in your right mind."

"Guess not."

His angry sneer contorting even more viciously, Riley pins Spike against the pillar with one hand and pulls a wooden stake from his coat pocket. Spike barely has time to gasp before the full length of the stake plunges brutally through his heart.

* * *

_A/N: Ahh! Cliffhanger! Though, if you've watched the episode recently, you shouldn't be that worried. 3rd installment of "Into the Woods" coming soon!_


	11. Chapter 11: If My Heart Could Beat

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: _Oh, come on! You didn't really think I'd kill off Spike, did you?_ Thank you so much _LaceyCordelle, Mystic4Gohan, Thetrueslayer_, and _SecretSlayer_ for reviewing!

Fun fact: this chapter marks where the word count on this fic exceeds my first multi-part fic, "Chosen for More". Hard to believe. Also, I found out how much I _love_ writing Willow and Tara!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts the last part of "Into the Woods", including both direct and slightly altered quotes, and tiny bits from "The Gift" and "Touched", plus a line similar to one in Harry Potter: Sorcerer's Stone. Starts right where the last chapter ended.

**Warning: Riley gets very violent **(which, in my humble opinion, is in-character, since fit-of-rage Riley even beat up Graham, one of his best friends, in "Out of My Mind"), so **skip to the first line break if you don't want to read the torture scene**.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike leads Buffy to the vamp drug den and they catch Riley red-handed, or technically red-elbowed. Distraught, Buffy runs away and then lashes out at Spike. He convinces her to return home, while Riley, mad with jealously, corners Spike in his crypt and stakes him._

* * *

Chapter 11: If My Heart Could Beat

"Owww! Oh, bloody hell! Oh, God . . . _hey!_"

Spike stares in confusion from the stake in his chest to Riley's contemptuous face. While it certainly hurts like hell, he isn't any more dead than he started out to be.

Scowling, Riley rips out the stake, and Spike claps a hand over the bleeding puncture, groaning sharply.

"Plastic wood-grain," Riley indicates the blood-soaked weapon. "Looks real, doesn't it?"

Spike's only reply is a wince, still so relieved that he isn't dust that he barely acknowledges his attacker's words.

"But it hurts well enough," the former soldier continues, low and furious. "And I really want to hurt you, Spike."

Spike merely shrugs, unthreatened. "If I had this chip outta my head, I'd've killed you long ago. Ain't love grand."

Riley seizes him by the throat, pressing him higher up the wall until Spike's standing only on the balls of his feet.

"Buffy is _mine_!"

"You sure 'bout that after tonight, mate?" Spike retorts, finally giving in to his suppressed urge to gloat, letting his voice become a merry teasing tune. "Poor little Soldier Boy. I'd feel sorry for you if I wasn't so glad you've lost her."

Fuming, Riley yanks Spike's hand away from his wound and stakes him again, driving the point between his ribs and straight through his heart until it hits his scapula. Spike gives a hoarse gasp of pain.

"_Oww!_ Bloody hell!"

"You know, I'm starting to remember that night before Joyce first went to the hospital." He shoves the stake in deeper still, the blunt tip screwing into the inside of Spike's left shoulder blade. "And I'm remembering just how much I enjoyed myself. Didn't it go something like this?"

With his free hand he throws a heavy punch into Spike's face, splintering his nose and peppering them both with tiny droplets of blood. Then his right hook barrels into Spike's cheekbone, once to weaken it, then again, harder, until he hears the sheering sound of the bone fracturing.

"_Oh God!_"

"Scream all you want, demon. Buffy can't hear you."

With his fiercest glare yet, Riley rams his full weight against the stake until he hears the crack of breaking bone and the grating smash of the plastic point lodging into the stone of the pillar. Spike roars in agony, his demon face surging to the surface, hands scrambling to try to wrest the stake out, but Riley holds his arms clear.

"I'm sure you already know that when I was in the Initiative, we did a lot of experiments on animals like you," he jeers, watching Spike's yellow eyes turn blue again and start watering from the pain. "We cut them up to see what made then tick, and tortured them to find what it took to break them. I really hope it takes an awful lot to break you, Spike, 'cuz I'm going to hurt you until you do, and probably for a while after."

"All this . . . 'cuz I'm hot for your honey?" Spike rasps, every few words separated by a shaky wheeze. "Dear, dear . . . why so threatened? Think I might have . . . a chance with her, do you?"

Riley throws another right hook, further busting up Spike's lip. The vampire spits a tooth and a quarter-cup of blood out of his mouth before he can keep speaking.

"Ooh, s-scary. You're . . . all . . . talk," he groans.

"Am I?"

His face a pitiless mask, Riley grabs Spike's right arm, thrusts it out to the side, and then brings the point of his elbow crashing down into Spike's shoulder. It dislocates with a horrendous _POP_, and Spike gasps deep in the back of his throat, eyes bulging, vision going white-hot. When the commando lets go of his arm, it falls back limply to his side, totally paralyzed.

"Don't even try," he taunts, watching Spike struggle in vain to pull the stake free of the wall with his remaining good hand. From another pocket of his coat he draws out a length of coarse rope and starts twisting it into a noose shape.

"You gonna . . . hang me?" Spike scoffs, stifling his pain with a half-laugh.

"Not exactly." Riley forces Spike's free hand into the loop, then yanks it tight enough to cut off a human's circulation. Casting the rope around the column, he grabs Spike's other forearm, knots the free end of the rope around it, and then tugs until Spike's arms are fully taut, straining the ripped muscles of his chest.

"Scared I'm . . . gonna fight back? Or is this a . . . bondage kink?" Spike hisses through clenched teeth, only to feel Riley's fist smash into his mouth again, then into the socket of his wrenched arm.

"Shut up!"

"Bite me."

_WHAM!_ Riley drives his knee into Spike's groin, and an electric bolt of pain shoots through every inch of his sinewy body. Legs buckling, he sags against the column, held upright only by the stake through his breastbone and shoulder blade. The commando ignores the bleeding cracks in the skin of his own knuckles as he lays into Spike's face and stomach again, first with quick stinging jabs that only cause skin-deep damage, then heavier punches for breaking bones.

Spike loses count at around forty hits. Each blow jerks him off balance, shifting the stake in his breast, stretching the wound wider, threatening to rip his heart right out of his chest. His arms bulge, tensing at the ropes, the rough texture cutting into the half-healed bite mark on his wrist. If he can just get one hand free and knock the boy's lights out, he'll endure any level of headache as the consequences. But the harder he pulls, the tighter the cord squeezes into his skin. Soldier Boy sure knows his knots, has him all trussed up and helpless.

"Hmm. Thought I would have heard at least one '_Please stop, I beg you'_ by now," Riley muses, taking a respite for the sake of his own tired arms. Wiping his sweaty brow on his sleeve, he walks a few paces back and assesses his bleeding prisoner. "I guess the vamps I helped rip apart in the Initiative were just squealing little rats."

_It's 'cuz none of them had Angelus for a grandsire_, Spike says inside his head, his lips too battered and sticky with blood to open. _It's 'cuz you can break my body all you like, boy, but you haven't come close to touchin' me. Can't really hurt someone 'nless you go at their mind_.

Seizing the abandoned bottle in Spike's chair, Riley downs a huge mouthful of the whiskey, then hurls the bottle at Spike. It shatters against his shoulder, glass fragments and alcohol splashing all across his neck and face, burning in the cuts.

"Doesn't matter," the human shrugs, advancing on him again. "I can go all night."

Spike can't even feel the individual punches now, just a steady throb of unrelenting pain. His thoughts wander freely, seeking relief, and he thinks of Buffy . . . her soft lips and clutching hands and the feel of her body when she pulled him against her in her kitchen, the scent of her golden hair, her sweet smile when she'd whispered his name in her sleep. And the angry child shredding his flesh is barely a blip on his radar screen compared to the wonderful knowledge that maybe – even just for a moment, in that instant between dreaming and waking – Buffy loved him and wanted him.

It takes a few seconds of stillness before Spike realizes his head has slumped down onto his chest and that Riley is yanking on his hair, demanding his attention.

"Look at me, demon! Look at me!"

Blinking blood out of his eyes, he raises his head, fixes Riley with a cold sneer, and growls as viciously as he can manage. The next uppercut drives Spike's head back, bashing his skull against the stone column.

"Maybe I didn't almost kill you enough."

Stalking away from Spike, Riley evaluates the inner crypt door, still half open from when he'd barged inside. He looks around for a heavy object, settles on the trunk underneath the TV, and shoves the piece of equipment off with a _smash_ before hefting the trunk over and propping the door open fully. Satisfied, he turns back to face Spike, framed in the center of the rectangle of moonlight that streams through the doorway.

"Sunrise is in about an hour. Have a nice death. I think I'll go see Buffy."

"G-go t- . . . to h-hell," Spike chokes out, doubting that the cowardly git can even hear him.

As soon as the hazy figure of Riley exits the crypt, Spike starts twisting his hands frantically, working until his left fingernails are at an angle where they can pick at the knot around his limp right wrist. His head lolls forward as he plucks, tearing fiber by fiber, imagining the same tiny rips taking place in his strained arms. The blood from his chest wound has dribbled down his aching abdomen and all the way down his pant leg onto his boot.

He starts to hear birds chirping outside, their carefree symphonies warning of the encroaching dawn. _Dawn . . . his dearest Lil' Bit . . . if she were comin', she'd save him . . . set him free . . . end his torment_ . . .

The frayed section of rope finally snaps, and his out-of-joint arm swings back to his side, quickly followed by his left, with the rest of the rope dangling off his left wrist like a pair of handcuffs. For a moment he just braces himself against the pillar, taking the weight off first one shaky leg, and then the other, watching the sky outside his crypt turn more and more peach-colored. Then, stabilizing his feet, he grips the stake in his left hand and tugs, trying to loosen the spike from its anchored position in the wall. Each pull seems to claw him apart – his bones grating against the plastic, his torn muscles shaking so much he can barely keep his fingers wrapped around the weapon. Sweat adds to the blood already dripping down the sides of his face and limbs, and steam starts to rise from his exposed arms. The gashes on his cheeks and jaw stretching fit to shred, he gives a pained shout and heaves his chest forward into the stake, trying to force himself the rest of the way through it if he can't get it out the other way.

The sun's blazing rays suddenly burst over the treetops on the horizon. Spike shies away from the light, throwing his left arm up to cover his face, his body twisting and sizzling. With a sickening, grinding _crunch_, the stake finally detaches from the column, and Spike keels over onto the sunlit stone floor. Groaning, he rolls until he's clear of the path of direct light and flops onto his back. He slowly extracts the faux-wood spike from his chest, clenching his broken jaw as he works it free of the aching muscle. Free at long last, it slips through his blood-drenched fingers, and the clatter it makes as it hits the ground is the last sound Spike hears before he passes out.

* * *

He's still bleeding when he wakes at sunset. His blood – a steady trickle, not the spurts and ebbs that a beating heart would produce – has pooled, tepid and sticky, on the flagstones beneath him. Throbbing with pain, Spike lifts his left wrist to his mouth and loosens the rope with his teeth, tossing it aside as soon as the noose is wide enough. He tries to push himself up, but his head swims dizzily and he slumps back to the blood-soaked floor.

On the second try, he manages to turn over onto his knees and tuck his right arm through the puncture hole in his shirt like a make-shift sling, then he hobbles across the open space to his liquor stash by the fridge. He leans against the side of a stone coffin, chokes down a few mouthfuls of the first bottle he finds, then upends the remainder over his chest, screaming as it burns as badly as sunlight. Dropping the empty bottle, he falls on his side and curls into a fetal position, letting his pain draw him back to the brink of unconsciousness.

Stiff and swollen, rib bones jutting out at odd angles, Spike struggles to stand once again but just sinks light-headedly back to his knees after a few seconds. Reduced to crawling on his bruised belly, he drags himself over to the slab that separates the levels of the crypt, heaves it to the side, and tumbles face-first down the stairs. He lands in a heap, trembling with pain, feeling like there's not a bone in his body that isn't mashed to powder.

When his vision finally stops spinning, he forces himself to keep going, to pull himself to his feet and stagger into the sewer tunnels. He wants to go directly to Buffy – to apologize, do whatever he can to put things right after causing her such grief – but knows that in his current weakened state if he crosses paths with Riley again he'll be an extra pile for the street clean-up crew faster than he could say, "Sod off." Thus, all Buffy's common haunts – 1630 Revello, the Magic Box, even Giles' flat – are off limits. There's only one place he can think of where Riley wouldn't have any business going, where he has the faintest chance of begging for help without getting a one-way-ticket to Judgment Day.

Halfway there, he wishes he'd had the sense to grab his duster off his armchair before he made his way to the lower level, just for the extra warmth that the coat would provide. But, at least this way he's not smearing blood all over the leather. It's an hour before he manages to travel the length of four city blocks, after falling on his face in the ankle-length grimy water more than once, and then pull himself one-handed up a workman's ladder and through a manhole. The streets in this part of town are mostly empty in the late evening afterglow, as are the manicured lawns of UC Sunnydale's campus.

Spike stumbles down a faintly familiar sidewalk to Stevenson Hall, slips inside through an unlocked ground-floor door, and limps up to the second floor. When he sees the light beneath the doorframe of 219, he almost sobs with relief. Lurching towards the door, he drags his knuckles against it and then covers his chest wound again, feeling only a weak throb of pain where a living man's heart would be.

Several long seconds elapse in silence, and then pajama-clad Willow answers the door.

"Who is – Spike?" she gapes, recoiling slightly at the sight of how mangled and bloody he is. "What – how did – with the face and the ouchies . . ."

"Never been better, Red," he wheezes, leaning into the doorframe, renewed sweat beading up on his face from the warmth of the air-conditioned dorm. "I just . . . gotta ask a small favor of you an' Glinda."

Hearing their conversation, Tara stands up from her desk and joins her girlfriend at the door. Like Willow, her expression turns aghast as she takes one look at Spike.

"Oh m-my God!"

"What do you want us to do? I . . . I think we could find some vampy healing spells if we looked hard enough. Actually, don't quote me on that, because I don't think too many witches were on the same side as vampires, but I'm sure something would help . . ."

He shakes his head, shifts his left hand to show them the stake puncture, and hisses slightly at the change in pressure over his gruesome, gaping wound.

"Think you girls could . . . stitch me up?"

Unable to hold up his own weight any longer, he slides down the doorframe to his knees. Tara gasps, her eyes welling up with tears of pity, while Willow glances haphazardly around the dorm room and then dashes for the first spellbook she spots.

"Right. Sew him up . . . um, lemme see . . . domestic spells . . . spells for cooking . . . spells for washing . . . ooh! Here's one for darning socks!"

"Will!" Tara cries, kneeling down in front of Spike and watching in horror as blood continues to seep into his damp t-shirt.

"No . . . I mean yes! It's close to sewing . . . it's like knitting, only we would use bits of Spike instead of sock yarn, which is kinda a lot gross."

"P-p-please hurry, Will! Anything!"

Looking up through bleary, bloodshot eyes, Spike's surprised to see hot tears streaking Tara's face, her hand clasped over her mouth.

"Aw, pet . . . don't cry. I'll . . . heal up . . . in a month or two," he finishes with just a hint of his usual teasing swagger. He tries to smile, but his broken cheek and jaw make any facial movement beyond slurred whispers pretty much impossible.

"Willow, we've g-got to help him!"

"Did I mention I'm not good under pressure?"

"What if . . . what if we p-put him to sleep f-first? Just so he doesn't have to be in so m-much pain?"

Nodding spastically, Willow yanks open the drawer of her bedside armoire and rifles through the contents until she unearths a 3-inch-long bottle half-full of a lavender fluid.

"I was saving this for the night before semester exams, because, you know, tests make me giddy. But I can always brew more."

"Oh, Will, please hurry . . ."

The redhead shakes the vial vigorously, pops out the little cork, and carries it over to Tara, who carefully transfers it to the vampire's left hand.

"This is okay, right, Spike? You trust us not to hurt you?" Tara quickly implores as Spike throws back his head and tips the contents of the miniature bottle between his cracked lips.

"Like I've got . . . a choice. I'm . . . at your . . . mercy . . ."

His eyelids droop closed, and with a muted sigh he pitches forward onto the floor. Tara just manages to catch his head in her hands and keep it from bloodying up the low carpet.

"Um . . . maybe we should've put him on a towel or something before we knocked him out," Willow ponders.

"W-w-we could cover a bed and float him up to it. Oh, Will . . . it was R-r-riley, I know it w-was. I . . . I n-never thought a person could be so brutal."

"I guess Spike's lucky he's already dead, 'cuz otherwise he'd _be_ dead . . . Somehow that sounded more like a good thing inside my brain."

* * *

When Spike wakes, his first sensation is of a slowly building tightness in his chest, like delicate spider-web strings are weaving him back together, tugging on his innards. He groans softly.

"Spike! You're awake!"

"Mostly," he mumbles, his lids and lips so swollen he can hardly move them. "That you, Red?"

"Uh-huh," Willow quickly answers. "I thought you'd be asleep a lot longer, so I'm not quite done with the hole-patching. I did a spell to make your insides go all numb, but, again, not sure how vamps react to spells meant to be used on humans. How do you feel?"

"Like a beefy college boy gave me a pounding for three straight hours. How long was I out?"

"Forty minutes or so."

"You done somethin' to my arm?" he queries, perplexed by a new tingling in his right shoulder, where before there had only been a heavy, deadened ache. Through the thin slits of his vision, he spies a lot of white cloth under his chin, presumably a proper sling the girls have rigged his hand into.

"Yeah, Tara noticed it was out of socket. That was the first thing we fixed, 'cuz she was afraid if we rolled you onto your back to stitch up that side that it would fall right out. I _think_ we did it right, 'cuz there was this –" she makes a noise like a chewing gum bubble bursting "– and then you screamed, and Tara screamed, but for some reason you were still asleep. It was freaky, and that's coming from a girl who's grown up on a Hellmouth. Really gives it some perspective."

Chuckling lightly, Spike concentrates through the swoon of magical anesthesia and manages to barely shift the tips of his fingers, his nerve fibers functioning once more.

"You . . . uh, heard from Buffy? She say anythin' about last night?"

"She did seem to be in an especially Slayer-y mood today," Willow answers, finishing whatever sewing enchantment she's been performing on Spike's heart and sprinkling him with some pungent herbs before reaching for more strips of bed-sheet. "This morning she had a lead on this vamp nest where people were offering themselves up as living juice boxes, but by the time we got there, it was abandoned. Buffy was so pissed she went all Terminator and torched the place."

"That so?" Spike asks in surprise. "How'd Army Man take it?"

"Haven't seen Riley all day," she shrugs. "She didn't want to wait for him before we stormed the bloodsucking fortress, er, no offense."

"Fine by me. I'm just sorry she didn't get to stake every last, good-for-nothin' one of 'em. Give the rest of us demons a bad name."

"There," she nods, tying the final knot on the bandages around his otherwise bare chest. "Is that tight enough? Some of your ribs were a little, um, mashed together, but I put them all back where they seemed to fit."

"Good as new," he jests cheerfully. "Thanks ever so. Mind if I ring up the Slayer's house before I leave?"

To his surprise, Willow bites her lip hesitantly.

"Um . . . Spike, maybe . . . maybe you shouldn't call Buffy."

"How's that?"

"We, um . . . I know about . . . the love poem you copied in that notebook."

"Nosy little chit," he mutters, smiling weakly. "What 'bout it?"

"Well . . . Tara and I agree that it was really sweet . . . but . . ."

"What we mean is, you've been very g-g-good to Buffy," Tara assists, arriving with a man's shirt from the dorm laundry room's lost-and-found. "We just think . . . maybe this crush thing . . ."

"You think I should give her up," he works out from their hesitating hints. "Sorry, girls. I'm a goner, Sunnydale's very own Sisyphus, doomed to never rest in peace."

He swings his legs over to the side of the bed and then sits up, groaning. His skeleton feels like it's been sawn into kindling, burned, re-oxygenated, and re-assembled backwards.

"Thanks for patchin' me up. Sorry if I gave you girls a fright."

"We wish we had some blood to give you," says Tara, helping him fit the borrowed flannel shirt over his stiff shoulders. "You know, that wasn't _our_ actual blood."

"Done more than enough, luv. Gotta think of somethin' to do with all these life-debt favors you keep rackin' up."

"Willow did almost everything this time," Tara blushes.

"My thanks, Red. So, can I use your phone or do I have to limp down to the street and–"

"Oh, go ahead," Willow concedes, cleaning her witchcraft supplies off the dark towel they'd placed under Spike. He reaches over for the phone, dials the home number for 1630 Revello, and tucks the mouthpiece under his chin while he wrests his arms into the plaid shirt's sleeves.

"Summers' residence?" pipes up Dawn's voice on the other end of the line.

"Hey, Niblet. It's me. Buffy at home?"

"Hey Spike. You okay? You sound funny."

"Tell you 'bout it later, pet. Buffy there?"

"No, I think she's still at the Magic Box. I could call and check if you want."

"That's alright, just wanted to see if it was safe for me to come over. Her boy-toy hasn't been pokin' his ugly nose 'round the place, right?"

"Nope. And I've got great news! Buffy's decided to break up with Riley!"

Spike's newly repaired heart seems to swell to triple size, straining at its healing ligaments.

"She what now?"

"Yep!" says Dawn cheerily. "She told me this morning. Said he'd been a big, lying jerk-face. Or maybe I said that. But she definitely said she was gonna break up with him."

* * *

Ever word out of Riley's mouth makes Buffy feel more and more disgusted with him, and mortified with herself for not recognizing his betrayal much sooner. Her fraying nerves at their absolute nadir, she yanks her arm out of his grip, spins around, and shouts directly into his face.

"Fine. Fine! Tell me about your whores! Tell me what on earth they were giving you that I couldn't."

"They needed me," he answers, as though he's had this excuse ready ever since he first gave in to the vampire's allure. "My blood, my body. I know, it was just physical –"

"Oh, thank you for that really insightful news flash. Next thing you know it, people will start spreading rumors that the earth is round and rotates around the sun!"

"Buffy–"

"_Just_ physical. Let's take a look at your stunning track record when it comes to being _physical_, Riley Finn! Remember Faith? Remember not picking up on the fact that she'd hijacked my body? Remember _sleeping_ with her?!"

"It was _your_ body!"

"But it wasn't _me_, Riley! But you couldn't see that. You _still_ don't see me, who I am. You're just trying to fit me into your picture-perfect mold of what I ought to be like, where I'm not really the Slayer and stronger than you and whatever else you have a problem with."

"So you slept with Spike to get back at me for Faith?" he accuses, grey eyes steely and cold.

Buffy recoils, staring him down in the gloom of the semi-dark training room.

"I have _never_ slept with Spike," she says slowly, lividly, every word punctuating the air like a knife slash. "I kissed him twice: first on the night my mom told me she was getting a CAT scan, and the second time the night the alien attacked my house. That's it. I don't know who you've been listening to, or whether this is just a lie you cooked up to make yourself feel less guilty. I'll tell you the truth about Spike. While you've been getting your kicks from those demented killers, he's been by my side through every step of the hardest real-life thing I've ever gone through. I don't love him, but I trust Spike in a way that I've never been able to trust you . . . and after what I saw last night, Riley, I know I can't ever trust you again."

He glares angrily at her for a long moment, and when he finally speaks, there's no remnant of her sweet cuddly boyfriend, only Special Agent Finn, poster-boy of the Initiative.

"They want me back, Buffy. The military. It's deep undercover, no contact with civilians. Transport's leaving tonight."

"Good," she replies curtly, folding her arms across her chest. "Because we're through, Riley. It's over. Go back to the military, and don't show your face in my town again."

Riley looks slightly shell-shocked for a few seconds before recovering his stern, impassive expression. "So, what? This is goodbye?"

"Looks like."

"You're not going to give me any reason to stay?"

"Can't think of any."

Moving around him, Buffy picks up her coat and opens the back door of the Magic Box.

"Spike's dead."

Riley's stiff words turn Buffy to stone just as she prepares to close the door. She rotates back to face him, gazing into his scowling eyes, searching for a hint that he's bluffing.

"What?"

"I killed Spike. This morning. He burned at sunrise."

"You . . . you're lying."

"Go check his crypt. Dust and blood is all you'll find."

"How dare you . . . How _DARE_ you put this on him." Try as she might to keep her voice calm, inside she's panicking. _Not Spike, please not Spike. I need him. I just need him . . . Oh, God, and I was so horrible to him last night . . . the things I said . . ._

"Too late, Buffy. Guess you shouldn't have me given the impression that you were cheating with him."

"I can't believe this! You're blaming _ME_ for the vendetta that _YOU_ invented to justify _YOUR_ unfaithfulness?!"

"He deserved it."

"Get out!" she yells with Dawn-worthy hysteria. Reaching to the floor by the back door, she chucks first one then the other of her unused boxing gloves at Riley. "Get out of here!"

Scowling as the gloves ricochet off his chest, Riley snatches his jacket from the vaulting horse, pulls it on roughly, and yanks open the door to the retail room of the Magic Box. The _slam_ of the door echoes through Buffy like a hammer blow to her head. In a heavy-hearted daze, she turns in the opposite direction and steps out into the alley.

She won't go to the crypt tonight, because she knows that once she does – once the evidence has stared her in the face – it'll really be true. For one night, she can pretend it's a lie, imagine that Spike's standing outside her house smoking those stupid cigarettes . . . or in the living room teaching card games to Dawn . . . or impressing her mom with his knowledge of art pieces . . . or mixing his hot chocolate with an extra dose of marshmallows.

Walking aimlessly in the general direction of her house, Buffy's neck stiffens as she senses the two vampires behind her, their strides increasing to close in on her. Then more of them loom from the shadows . . . four . . . six . . . ten in total, encircling her.

"The pyro act was a bad idea, Slayer," says the vampire she threw into the wall on her mad dash out of the flophouse last night, presumably the gang boss, the seedy establishment's proprietor.

"Felt pretty good to me," she glowers back at him. All she wants is to go home and cry, not for the departure of her treacherous lover, but for the vampire who paid the price for setting her free from Riley.

"I'm not running. And you're not shutting me down. In fact, you're not going to make it through the night."

"Walk away," she orders the den leader, her voice deadly. "I'm serious. Don't do this. Not now."

But of course they don't heed her warning, don't sense that of all nights to rattle her cage, this is the worst. The leader lunges first, and one hit from Buffy sends him sailing into some street-side equipment with a ringing clatter. It's all instinct, pure reaction, striking out with fist and foot each time one of the vamps puts an arm or face within her range. One of them has the gall to attack her with a wooden pole, and she yanks it from his grasp, thrusting it through the chest of a vamp on the opposite side of her. The quarterstaff becomes a lethal extension of her arm, extending her span of attack. Dust churns in the air around her, the double-ended stake twirling like a drum major's baton. It's a dance . . . a dance for Spike . . .

The vamp leader makes one last charge, but she spins the pole a final time and cleanly stakes him as he leaps on her. The only creature left in the alley is a gaunt, trembling female vampire, who'd been cowering outside Buffy's reach for the whole fight. For a moment, she's sure that the crinkled forehead and sunken amber eyes belong to the one who'd been servicing Riley in the private room, but a moment later the memory resurfaces: the pitiful vampire girl staring at Spike . . . the one whom he'd allowed to bite him, taste him in exchange for the information he'd relayed. The vamp prostitute's sporting fresh bruises, no doubt punishment from the boss for consorting with the blue-eyed stranger who'd led the Slayer to them. She's emaciated and her skin has a lemony tinge to it, the ravages of whatever bizarre black-marketdrugs can cause damage to vampires.

Buffy straightens up, the quarterstaff held vertical in her hand, expression impassive. Bewildered, the junkie girl looks first at the upper point of the pole, then into Buffy's frigid eyes. A second later, she turns and runs for the alley outlet. Buffy watches the pitiful vampire shuffle away and realizes that the girl will probably just starve on her own, that she has neither the strength nor the cunning to fend for herself. Considering it a mercy killing, she hoists the staff once more and hurls it javelin-like at the fleeing vampire. Impaled through the back, the girl explodes into dust before she can issue a cry of final pain.

"So how'd that work out for ya?"

Buffy twists around at the sound of Xander's voice.

"Make you feel better?" he asks speculatively, disapproval on his face.

"What are you doing here?" Buffy replies, avoiding the obvious, sure that her grim face leaves no room for doubt.

"I thought you might need to talk. Then I saw the skirmish happen. I was gonna lend a hand, but I noticed you grew a few extra ones."

"Go home, Xander," Buffy whispers, all the fight draining out of her. She starts to continue down the alley, but he moves to block her.

"Buffy–"

"I'm serious."

"So am I! Something's up. You're acting like a crazy person."

"Just leave me alone, Xander. You have no idea what's going on."

Breathy tears rise to the corners of her eyes as the adrenaline burst from the fight works its way out of her system, and the horrors of her conversation with Riley come spiraling back to the forefront of her mind. Xander does a double-take, shocked to see her crying.

"No? Good, so you and Riley _aren't_ imploding?"

"There is no me and Riley anymore. What I can't figure out now is how I didn't see it coming sooner."

Xander squawks in confusion. "Hang on. Push 'stop', 'rewind', and 'play' again. Buffy, Riley would do anything for you."

"Including get himself bit by vampires, lie to me, run around behind my back, and then convince himself that I'm cheating on him with Spike."

For the third time in about as many seconds, Xander picks his jaw up off the street.

"With . . . with _Spike_?"

"I don't wanna talk about it." Buffy drops her chin to her chest, trembling despite the warmth of her coat. "I just wanna go home."

"I . . . I would have thought you wanted Riley to stay."

"I don't even know who he is anymore. I thought he was . . . dependable."

"_Dependable_?" Xander snorts. "What is he, State Farm?"

"Fine! He was _convenient_! Is that what you wanted to hear, Xander?"

"You've been treating him like the rebound guy, when he's the one that comes along once in a lifetime –"

"No," Buffy denies him immediately. "He's the guy that was _supposed_ to be the perfectly _normal_ boyfriend, to put me in a perfectly _normal_ relationship. But from the very start he couldn't deal. I was stronger and faster, I _always_ had to hold back with him, I took out more demons in every fight . . . I have two whole lives to juggle and he got upset because I couldn't focus completely on him and mom and destiny all at the same time."

Xander just stares at her with his mouth hanging open, realizing from her reserved tone of voice that her break-up isn't the cause of her tears, and flummoxed as to what _else_ could have happened.

"I let myself be persuaded by you and Giles and everybody else that Riley was good for me, so I kept trying," she continues emotionlessly. "I really tried, Xander. I tried _so hard_ to make things work out, even after I barely knew if I believed in us anymore. But things kept adding up. Faith, Angel, Dracula, mom's tumor . . . somewhere along the way, Riley stopped seeing whatever part of me he fell for and could only see the things that were separating us. So . . . no, Xander, I don't want him to stay. I don't want to keep fighting a battle that neither of us cares about winning."

Xander looks at her for a few seconds, slightly dismayed that he'd been so mistaken in his Riley-partial analysis of Buffy's failing relationship.

"If . . . if you're so sure about Riley leaving, why are you crying?"

Buffy closes her eyes, squeezing out two more bulbous tears. "Not now, Xander. I have to check the cr– . . . s-something in the morning, and then I'll tell everybody together."

"Do . . . do you want me to walk you home?" he asks, surprisingly sweet.

"No. I'm fine. Go be with Anya. Go tell her . . . tell her what you'd say if this was the last time you'd ever see her. Make sure she knows how you feel about her."

A grateful smile transforms Xander's face, not quite erasing all the confusion. He takes a step toward Buffy, and she accepts his friendly hug, turning her face to let the tears keep dribbling freely. Then the embrace is over, and Xander walks away en route to Anya's apartment, while Buffy's feet carry her numbly back to 1630 Revello. As she dries her eyes and opens the front door, she hears Dawn's voice in the living room, no doubt commenting at a TV show.

"Dawn," she sighs, stepping across the foyer, "it's past your bedtime. Why are you still–?"

Buffy stops short, her feet and lips losing their ability to move at the exact same instant.

Only her eyes can stir, taking in Dawn burrowed under an afghan on the couch . . . and behind her . . . a pale face marbled with unnatural colors, heavy bruises covering the gamut from blue-black to mauve to yellow-green. Every inch that isn't bruised is either slit open, exposing deep red flesh under the usually white skin, or unnaturally swollen, like the welts squeezing his left eye completely closed. Even his lips are a scarlet blur of cracks and cuts. More gashes and rainbow-shaded bruises are visible down the v-neck of the loosely-fitting lumberjack shirt he's wearing, and his right shoulder and arm are swathed in a sling.

Buffy swallows, certain that if she blinks then the phantom will vanish. He doesn't speak, doesn't even move, one blue eye staring at her through its blackened, bloodied lids.

"Spike wanted to make sure you were alright," says Dawn quietly, her attitude a blend of contrite and anxious. "We didn't know when you were coming home."

Buffy can't take her eyes off of him, as though her sister and the rest of the room are a semi-transparent screen, a hologram surrounding them.

"Dawnie . . . go upstairs . . ."

Crestfallen, Dawn looks at Spike, then back up at her older sister, wondering if she'd better stay and act as their go-between.

"I don't wanna."

"Dawn, please . . ."

"But Buffy–"

"Obey your sister, Niblet," Spike whispers, his voice husky.

Reluctantly won over, Dawn stands up, gives his left hand a little squeeze, and silently slips around Buffy to head to her room. The moment the click of Dawn's bedroom door signals that they're alone, Buffy sinks onto the bottom-most stair, relief turning her legs to jelly, her stunned eyes still devouring him. It's his voice that convinced her that he's not an illusion she's conjured in her desperation. He's real. He's not dust. He's here.

Riley's last threat is just another lie.

Mistaking her silence for irritation, Spike shakily pushes himself up off the couch, clearly wracked with pain.

"I'll go. Won't make you look at my sodding face another second. Just wanted to know you were okay, and that the wanker didn't hurt you."

"Spike."

He freezes, right eye meeting her gaze again, a crease of curiosity forming between his discolored brows.

"Yeah, Buffy?"

She rises from the step, her lips trembling so much she can barely force the faint words out.

"Could you . . . stay here? Will you just hold me?"

Nothing moves but the very corner of his injured mouth, the closest thing to a smile he can manage. Then, wordlessly, he pulls his sling loose and opens his arms to her. Buffy crosses the four paces that separate them, but falters when she's within touching distance, unsure where to safely put her quivering hands. Spike guides her, tucking her against his right side and resting his bandaged arm around her shoulders. She flattens her hands against the soft flannel, afraid to press too strongly until he initiates by tightening his arms around her, his head resting on her golden waves.

When his strength gives out, she eases him down to the couch, tucks her feet up off the floor, and nestles back into him, laying her face against the thickest bandage on his chest.

* * *

_A/N: *wipes eyes* Okay, here's your next task. Look up "Only Love" by Heather Nova (the song that plays during the montage in "Touched"), have yourself a good cry, and then pretty-please write me a review. Spike and Buffy still have a long way to go_.


	12. Chapter 12: Arms Length

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: I'm so floored by your reviews to the last chapter. (Thank you)x(1,000,000). It's going to be hard to top that one. My inner muse is in recovery.

**HUGE NEWS**! "Five Words or Less" and "Chosen for More" have been nominated in a couple categories in the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards! If you consider me or this story worthy of your vote, just Google "Sunnydale fanfic awards" and it should be the first link. Voting for Round 28 begins (today) June 1, 2013. Here are the categories I'm in:

Best New Author – AGriffinWriter  
Best Episode Re-Write – "Five Words or Less"  
Best Fluff – "Chosen for More"  
Best Conventional Pairing – "Five Words or Less" (Buffy/Spike)  
Best Post-Series Finale – "Chosen for More"  
Best Unfinished – "Five Words or Less"

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts part 1 of "Triangle", including both direct and slightly altered quotes, plus brief quotes from "End of Days", "Crush", "Something Blue", "Harsh Light of Day", and "Intervention". To be honest, this chapter is mostly fluffy Spuffy since I had very little plot ideas for changing "Triangle", but more action in the next one, promise! Flashback sections will be in all _italics_ and are explained in context.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: After thrashing and nearly dusting Spike, Riley tells Buffy that her vampire confidante is dead. Meanwhile, Spike frees himself, crawls to Willow and Tara's dorm, and gets magicked back together. Buffy breaks up with Riley (good riddance!), stakes the vampire drug gang, explains herself to a confounded Xander, and arrives home to find Spike – only mostly dead, to quote "Princess Bride" – in her house. Also, Joyce is still recovering at the hospital and Giles is about to venture back to England to investigate what the Council may know about Glory._

* * *

Chapter 12: Arms Length

"Niblet, if you make me drink another soddin' drop, I'll be doomed to a portly blood gut for the rest of my miserable days."

It's late evening in the Summers' living room, two weeks since Joyce's surgery. Reclining on the couch with his duster lumped into a pillow behind his head, Spike melodramatically pats his stomach and then holds up a hand to refuse the fresh mug of heated blood that Dawn is pressing toward him.

"Silly!" Dawn giggles, setting the mug on a nearby coaster on the coffee table. "You're a _vampire_! You can't get _fat_!"

"Can so, if a sweet-talkin' minx like you forces enough down my gullet! Can't ya hear my breadbasket sloshin' when I move? I swear my washboard abs will never see the light of day again."

"Yeah, 'cause then they'd be on fire."

"You know bloody-well what I meant! Don't play daft. Just leave me be and do your letters and numbers before the Slayer harps on me for distractin' you."

"I object," Buffy calls out from the far side of the kitchen. "I do not _harp_."

Beside her, Willow and Tara laugh as they rinse and dry the Everest-sized mountain of dishes, handing clean ones to Buffy for sorting into the correct cabinets.

"He must be getting better. His snarky 'tude is back," the redhead giggles into Tara's ear.

Silently agreeing, Buffy leans around the kitchen island and watches her little sister and Spike . . . who finally looks like _Spike_ again, not a ground-beef patty that entered itself in a Monster Truck rally. His eyes are both open fully, though the left remains puffy underneath, and the spectrum of bruise colors on his face has muddied into various tinges of brown. In a strange sort of way, the vague color it gives his face almost makes him seem more human, less pale and smooth and sculptured. His white blond hair is curly and disheveled, adding to the softening look.

Every time she stares at him, she finds herself recalling that morning a fortnight ago, when she'd woken with dried tear-tracks down her cheeks, Spike's flannel-and-bandage-clad arms surrounding her, one in her hair, the other around her hip.

* * *

_The sun hasn't yet risen – it's the cold embracing arms that have roused her, not the light. When they'd fallen asleep, her cheek had been lying on his chest, but they had shifted slightly overnight, so that now his head rests on her shoulder. Though still just as mangled, in sleep he seems relaxed and innocent . . . trusting._

_By her assessment, the brutality to his face alone is ten times greater than the last beating Riley had given him; she dreads to think of how the rest of him must look, surely blackened with bruises, bones dislodged . . . more pain than a human could survive. Buffy's muscles clench reflexively, protectively, but in doing so she inadvertently stirs the sleeping vampire. He draws in a deep breath, groans as his broken ribs resist his lungs' unnecessary motion, and then tenses as his gobsmacked brain processes all that his nerves and senses are shouting . . . hunger, pain everywhere, and Buffy . . . her hair, her sweet scent, her form pressed tightly to his . . . surely it's a dream, or else the doorman at the Pearly Gates mistakenly let him into Heaven._

_"Buffy?" he murmurs, his right eye opening the little it can._

_"I'm here," she whispers, staying very still so she doesn't accidently prod some unseen injured part of him. "Do you . . . hurt?" _Smooth, Buffy. 'And the Academy Award for Lameness goes to . . .'

_"Not much," he replies faintly. "Just where I have skin."_

_Of course he would make coaxing a smile out of her his chief intention, even when every part of him aches and throbs. _Every_ part of him . . ._

_"Uh . . ." Buffy hastily frees her arm from around his cool back as she feels that forbidden bit of his jeans growing stiffer against her leg. "Have you eaten anything since those packets you took from the hospital?"_

_"Didn't even have those. Left 'em in your fridge, conveniently."_

_"Spike! How are you going to heal if you don't have any blood?"_

_"Got plenty of blood," he answers wryly, pointing a long finger at his battered countenance, the many gouges caked over with darkening scabs. Buffy shudders._

_"You know what I mean. So you've had nothing to drink in at least three days, and you let that starving vamp girl bite you, and then Riley–"_

_"I've had worse, Slayer," he interrupts, his barely-open right eye gazing at her, watching shiny tears bubble up and form a sheen over her green irises. "Buffy . . ."_

_"I'll fix you a mug. Don't get up," she orders quickly as she stands and he attempts to rise as well, sinking back against the cushions with a grimace._

_"I've got to clear out anyway, luv. It'll be sun-up soon. Don't want to be in your way. Know you're busy with Mum in recovery–"_

_"You're not going anywhere, Spike. You need to heal. No arguments, and no talking if it hurts you. You'll be the first-ever vampire to have R&R in a Slayer's house."_

_"Lucky me," he murmurs, a grin in his voice even though his face is too disfigured to show one._

_Buffy opens the refrigerator and finds the pilfered blood bags in the top of the meat drawer. Smiling to herself, she pulls one out, rips a corner of the plastic, pours the contents into a black ceramic mug, and sets the cup in the microwave._

_"Who, um . . . who gave you the bandages and the sling?" she calls over her shoulder, keeping her voice low in case Dawn is still asleep. "Doesn't look like you could have done it yourself."_

_"Sunny-D's favorite good witches. Mojo'ed all my bits and bobs back together."_

_It had taken _magic_ to make him look _this_ awful? What had he looked like _before_?_

_"What . . . what do you mean, 'b-back together'?"_

_He hears the suppressed blubbering in her voice, feels it resonate in his mending heart. Stifling a groan, Spike struggles to his feet, walks unsteadily across the living room, and approaches her, pausing in the threshold of the kitchen._

_"Had an arm out of joint. Some bones they put right. And the stake wound – plastic stake!" he adds as her panic-ridden eyes leap from his face down to the bandage over his heart, then his voice turns amused. "Honestly, Slayer, would I be standin' here if he'd shoved wood through me?"_

_A sob catches in her throat. Turning away, Buffy leans her face over the sink, tears dripping with tiny plunks onto the metal basin. Boggled by her reaction, Spike takes another step closer, only the island separating them._

_"Buffy, what's th'matter?"_

_"Why didn't you fight back?" she chokes out. Using the island as a crutch, he draws even nearer to Buffy, his foot-falls silent, voice soothing._

_"Couldn't, luv. Chip."_

_"B-but you could have, I dunno . . . escaped, run away."_

_"Couldn't move much, once he'd staked me clean through to the wall. Poofter wasn't in any hurry to let me off easy. Seems to have gotten the impression I was after his girl."_

_"I'm not his girl anymore," Buffy mutters, dragging the back of her hand under her eyes._

_"Niblet hinted you'd be givin' him the pink slip," says Spike, wishing he could coax his facial muscles to match the smile in his voice. "Well, good on you, luv. Tosser was just holdin' you back."_

_Privately agreeing, she turns around and lets out a breathy squeak of surprise at how close he's gotten to her, almost backing her up against the sink. Both their eyes admit that they're remembering this position two nights ago, before Dawn's cry had alerted them to the alien upstairs, those hasty accidental kisses, rebellious hands . . ._

_"He . . . he said . . . he thought I was sleeping with you."_

_If his jaw wasn't already broken, it would have snapped clean off en route to the floor._

_"That right? Huh. Guess that explains Soldier Boy's need to pulverize every inch of me. Awful quick to foot the blame, wasn't he? Petty git. Thought himself a real saint."_

_"And then he . . . he told me you were dead."_

_"Am dead, luv, 'case you forgot."_

_"Dusted dead."_

_"And . . . you don't want me dusted?" Spike asks softly, inwardly cursing his injuries. What wouldn't he give to be able to catch her up in his arms and kiss the breath out of her . . . if he tried anything now, he'd just crumple up in pain in seconds._

_"No, of course I don't," Buffy whispers._

_The microwave beeps, but they ignore it, eyes only for each other._

_" 'Cuz you want me . . . want me around?"_

_"Yes, Spike."_

_He chuckles nervously, resting his back against the island so that the space between them increases slightly, helping him curb the building burn as what remains of his blood flows to the already sore region below his belt. _Slow down, ya blundering prat. Don't ruin this.

_ "And here I was thinkin' you'd still be furious with me. About me showin' you Riley in that place." He pauses, waiting until her eyes return to him, his voice hoarse with emotion. "I was tryin' to help, you know. Not like I made him be there. Best intentions."_

_"I know that. I know you've done so much for me lately . . . been a better friend than I deserve sometimes. When . . . when he told me he killed you, all I could think about was what a monster _I_ was, the cruel things I said to you. And . . . I just wanted one more chance, a little life-rewindy button to go back and fix it. Thank you instead of hit you."_

_She gazes at the repeated impressions of larger, harder fists on his face._

_"I knew you didn't mean all the tosh, knew it was just your anger talkin'," he whispers, grimacing a little as he tries to shrug. "Blamed myself, not you."_

_"I'm still sorry, Spike."_

_"Already forgiven, luv."_

_"Thanks. It . . . it matters, what you think of me."_

_His head tilts, and the brows above both his eyes narrow slightly, even though only one can actual scrutinize her. "Why's that? You don't love me . . . _can't_ love me, so you keep tellin' yourself. What's it matter to you if I give you up or keep spendin' every wakin' second eatin' my heart out over you?"_

_Buffy trembles at the fervor in his tone and glances down at the half-visible bandage covering the aforementioned organ. Sometimes she forgets that his heart no longer beats._

_"I . . . I don't know, Spike. I . . ." she jumps a little as the microwave announces its presence again. "Can I just . . . can I spasm out words right now and have them kinda not make sense?"_

_He beams at her, bursting with so much love for this crazy, Californian super-girl that he nearly splits his healing cheek._

_"Go on, pet. Let your words do all the talkin' you want."_

_"It's just . . . what I _do_ feel for you, and what I know I _should_ feel for you . . . don't match. And I don't know which one is going to come out on top. And I don't want to choose right now, maybe ever, which is super selfish but, heck, you're not getting older, so what do you have to complain about. S-so . . . maybe I shouldn't have let so many words come out."_

_Spike's open eye is shining, his face radiating hope even through the welts and gashes. "So . . . you do feel somethin', just don't have a name for it, don't know if it's right or wrong for you?"_

_At her tiny nod, he lets out a slow, heavy sigh, incredulous._

_"I . . . I hope that's enough," she murmurs bashfully._

_"Enough?" Spike gapes. "A'course it's . . . Buffy, that's more than enough, far more than I dared hope. And I swear I won't push, 'specially not when Captain Cardboard prob'ly isn't even out of the country yet. I'm not askin' you for anythin'. Last night didn't have to mean anythin' if you don't want it to. Just a glitch, a bit of cold comfort from the cellar dweller."_

_"It did . . . mean something. To me. N-not as much as I'm sure it meant to you, but . . ."_

_"It was the best night of my life."_

_Buffy inhales with shock, recalling his former 'Greatest Night on Record', the night he'd killed his first Slayer almost a hundred years ago. He'd gloried just telling her about it, the thrill, the hunt, the dance, that final gasp, the ambrosia of triumph . . . How could a few simple hours of resting beside her hold a candle to that?_

_"I . . . I didn't say anything stupid in my sleep, did I?" she asks, then starts babbling nervously again. " 'Cuz that totally isn't allowed to count. I'll also assume there's some poetic license in there, and probably a concussion, on account of you being beaten half to death, or re-death . . ."_

_"Didn't say nothin'," he reassures her, his eye alight with ardor. "All I did was hold you . . . and it was the best night of my life."_

_"Your blood's gonna get cold again," she mumbles, welcoming the distraction as the microwave chirps a reminder that it's being neglected. She reaches for the buttons, but Spike leans toward her, his fingers halting her arm's movement._

_"My blood's plenty warm, Slayer. Few kind words from you has got it molten hot and fevered."_

_"Flatterer," she scolds half-heartedly, slipping her arm free and jabbing 'Add 30 sec', so that the microwave whirs to life again._

_"Sorry. Might have to remind me about the Not Pushin' clause."_

_They exchange smiles – or a shy smirk and a tenderhearted wince – and then to her surprise, Spike plucks disapprovingly at the plaid flannel around his chest._

_"At least let me stop by my place to fetch some proper clothes, pet? Glinda swiped this from the reject stash, understand why a bloke would want to cast it off. Looks horrid. And my pant leg's caked with dried blood."_

_"But your shirt must have been ripped by the st-stake –"_

_"I do own more than one shirt, Slayer," he says with a patronizing look. "Lack of human body odor notwithstanding."_

_"Got any rainbow-colored ones to match your face?" Buffy teases, opening the microwave._

_"Oh ho, nasty! Little kitty's got some claws on her."_

_"Spike! You didn't leave!"_

_Recognizing his voice as she opens her bedroom door, Dawn comes barreling down the stairs and tackles Spike, who lets out a deep "Oof!" of pain and fumbles for the countertop so he doesn't fall over._

_"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry!"_

_"No harm done, Niblet," he reassures her, cringing with his left arm around his ribcage. "Think you might even have shoved somethin' back where it was supposed to go."_

_"Dawn," Buffy chides, reaching over to pull her sister off the bruised vampire. "No hugging the invalid. We're just gonna have to hold him at arms length for a little while."_

_His brows rise playfully, catching her double meaning._

* * *

An unspoken promise had passed between Spike and Buffy in that last shared look before Dawn dragged him and his cup of warm blood into the dining room, that they wouldn't mention that night to anyone else, that their unveiled hearts would be their secret alone. They had also sworn not to reference the brief news clip that aired several days later, concerning the bite-covered and bloodless body of a young Caucasian male that the police had discovered in a dumpster between the Magic Box and the helicopter pad. Apparently, the vampire drug gang had served one last frequent customer before facing off with Buffy.

For the last two weeks, the living room window blinds have remained drawn to accommodate the undead English patient, despite heavy protests – mainly from Giles – about Buffy and Dawn allowing Spike to recuperate in their house. But with Joyce still at the hospital undergoing in-patient recovery, the girls would probably have torn each others' throats out in irritation if not for their maltreated houseguest. The only time they'd let him leave – aside from group trips to see Mrs. Summers at the hospital – was last Friday night, when both sisters had accompanied him to his crypt to exchange his bloodied jeans and oversized hand-me-down shirt for his own garments.

* * *

_"Watch your toes, ladies. Reckon there's glass bits on the floor," he mutters as he and Buffy pull open the outer crypt door and then shove the trunk aside so that the inner door can freely swing shut. Still with a slight limp, he strolls over to the slab dividing the levels, which remains ajar from last week. "Guess I'm lucky some Fyarl demon didn't nest in here while I was out. Don't fancy gettin' my guts rent out of shape just to take what's mine."_

_"Why can't we go downstairs with you?" Dawn complains, following him to the ladder. "What'cha got down there?"_

_" 'Cuz. Stuff," he answers both her questions elusively, starting to descend._

_"Can I see?"_

_"No, silly Bit! Can't have you pokin' around down here while I'm starkers! Stay up there and mind your sis."_

_"Boy, is he crabby or what?" Dawn smirks at Buffy. "But I guess anybody who had to wear that shirt for four days is entitled to a little crabbiness. Spike is sooo not a plaid kinda guy." __Hearing no response from her sister, Dawn moseys over to Spike's fridge and opens it, but is disappointed to see nothing but pig's blood in pouches and jars. "So lame. Hey, Buffy, next time we come over let's bring some Chex-mix or a veggie tray or something so when he has guests there will be snacks? Buffy? Are you listening?"_

_She can't move, can't even breathe. Ever since she set one foot inside the crypt, all Buffy can see is the blood . . . blood in streaky vertical lines on the column in front of the door . . . an oval-shaped puddle of dried blood on the floor . . . the blood-drenched weapon itself, so similar to her own familiar stakes that she has difficulty believing it isn't actually wooden . . . smears of blood across the center of the room and then leading from the fridge to the trap door. So much blood, every drop representing pain Spike endured on her behalf . . ._

_"What?" she finally whispers, meeting her sister's impatient gaze._

_"You totally missed me saying I was willing to eat vegetables." She walks over to the ladder and yells down at the probably semi-clothed vampire below. "You almost done, Spike?"_

_"Don't you dare come down here, Niblet! I'll bite you!"_

_"Nah you won't!"_

_"I will!" he shouts frantically. "So help me! If you take a peek at my ivory ass –"_

_"I think he's just shirtless," Dawn giggles at Buffy. "What a drama king."_

_"What?" Buffy repeats, again lost in thoughts of the hours of torment Spike endured, his life-force spilled all over the crypt._

_"I wonder what he keeps down there," the younger Summers sister muses, perching on one of the sarcophaguses. "I mean, even if he's set up running water, it's not like he needs to use the bathroom or shower or shave and stuff. Do you think he brushes his teeth?"_

_"Hmm," Buffy responds noncommittally. On the three non-magical occasions when she and Spike have kissed – that first lightning-quick one outside the Bronze, and the two of her own volition – she'd given no thought to whether his breath was winterminty or cinnamony or any toothpaste-flavor. All that she could remember was that he tasted of . . . Spike. The rich metallic of blood, the spice of liquor, bitter nicotine, and a heady sweetness – like stealing an extra candy from the goodies drawer behind Mom's back. _Whoa . . . where did _that_ come from?_ she wonders, slightly disturbed by her internal in-depth analysis of Spike's oral hygiene. Maybe it was the vampire blood scent all over the crypt that was driving her Slayer senses bonkers._

_"Spi-ike!" Dawn whines down at him. "What's taking so long?"_

_"Packin' a few extras, dependin' on how long your sis and mum let me impose on their good graces!" he hollers up the passage. "Grab my duster off the armchair, would ya, Niblet?"_

_"Your boyfriend's moving in," Dawn teases in a sing-song voice as she skips over to the upholstered seat and slings the leather coat over one arm._

_"He's not my boyfriend," Buffy snaps. The news article had been broadcasted that morning, and her old Initiative pager had confirmed what she already knew: 'Special Agent Riley Finn, killed in action by HSTs'. More like 'hunted down by monsters that were no worse than he was, and then drained of the blood he'd already been willing to give them, had been siphoning his body and soul to them for a month'. So she did not mourn for Riley, especially not now, seeing exactly how much blood he'd managed to drain out of Spike._

_A black canvas duffel bag comes swinging up onto the stone slab by the passage entrance, rapidly followed by a grunted "Ow!"_

_"Spike, why are you lifting and throwing stuff? That's what your helpers are here for!" Dawn demands, running over as his blond hair and bruised face emerge from the underground level._

_"Didn't think it would hurt so much!" he huffs at her, climbing a few steps higher on the ladder. "Eh! What's that look for? What've I done now?"_

_Curious, Buffy faces Dawn in time to see her little sister coyly tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, a pink tinge blossoming across her face as she stares at Spike. A second later, she turns her own gaze on the vampire and completely understands why. __He pauses at the top of the stairs, now clad in olive-green cargo pants and a long-sleeved grey thermal shirt that clings to every millimeter of his toned torso. He glances between the Summers girls, neither of whom seems able to draw their eyes away._

_"I . . . I just figured the hospital types might be more civil 'bout lettin' me in to see Joyce if I didn't look so much like a punk rocker," he mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. "More respectable-like. Plus it hides all the bruises, the non-facial ones at least."_

_"Mmhmm," Buffy nods, her brain trying and failing to remember her native language. Dawn blinks her way back out of Puppy-Love-dom and skittishly darts forward to grab Spike's duffel bag._

_"Aw, Bit, you don't have to carry –" he protests, but she dances out of his reach, toting his luggage. "Oi! Give it! If Xander sees you, he'll mock my manhood for all eternity!"_

_"What else you got in here?" the teenager giggles, working the bag's zipper._

_"Bad . . . evil things! That are not for a child's eyes," he flounders, giving chase as she sprints away from the passageway. He only lasts a few steps before he has to bend over at the waist, hand clenching his ribs._

_"Spike . . ."_

_" 'M alright, luv," he grumbles as Buffy hurries forward and overlays his hand with her own warm one. His shirt is even softer than it looks – velvety cotton over cool, hard skin – and as their eyes meet, her brain instantly retreats back to the Land of Lusty Wrong Feelings._

_"Um . . . um . . . we should . . ."_

_"Yeah . . ." he breathes, equally besotted. "Gotta . . . fridge . . . get more blood from the fridge, top up my cache at your place."_

_He straightens and continues rubbing his smarting side while he ambles over to the refrigerator and removes a few of the jars. Finally able to concentrate correctly now that his back is turned, Buffy realizes she'd been holding her breath and lets it all out in a puff. Dawn stands at the crypt door, smirking triumphantly. Buffy's eyes widen with sudden comprehension._

_"You did that on purpose!" she hisses crossly as she steps closer to her sister, keeping her voice as muted as possible. "You knew he'd run after you and jar his ribs and I'd go touch him!"_

_"Nuh-uh," Dawn sniggers guiltily, swaying Spike's duffel bag back and forth in front of her knees. As soon as Buffy pulls the door open again, the teenager shoots another glance back at Spike, mouths "yummy!" to her shocked sister, winks wickedly, and scampers away._

_"She's a balmy one," Spike sighs, joining the Slayer in the crypt exit with his stock of blood. Buffy just splutters._

* * *

"Dawn," Buffy shouts into the living room as Willow and Tara near the bottom of the dishes backlog, "if there are any plates in your room, let's have them before they get all furry and we have to name them."

"Hey! I was like _five_ then," Dawn frowns, always irritated when her sister cites examples of her childish behavior in front of Spike. But in this instance, he seems preoccupied, rubbing his knuckles into his cheek. "You okay, Spike?"

Hearing her question, Buffy walks around the island and furtively observes Spike while pretending to put away the ceramic serving dish that Tara just handed her.

"Yeah," he winces, gnawing on his pinkie finger. "Think that bloody tooth's finally growin' back in."

_CRASH!_ The platter shatters on the floor before Buffy even realizes it has slid through her fingers. Willow and Tara let out startled squeals, and Dawn misses a step on the stairs and bangs her knee with an "Ow!"

"He knocked out a _tooth_?!" Buffy gawks, oblivious to the china shards around her boots.

"Keep yer shirt on, Slayer! I'll be back to the full set of pearly whites in a day or two. 'Sides," he mutters in a surly tone, "you're all so keen on pointin' out how toothless I am these days, thanks to Skipper Chipper calling the shots in my grey matter."

"I'm having mixed-metaphor jet-lag," Tara giggles at her girlfriend, rolling her head around as though swooning.

"And that's why my mom always said to wear closed toed shoes in the kitchen," Willow advises, eyeing the mess at Buffy's feet. "You know, in case your really beat-up vampire frienemy says he lost a fang and you drop a china platter on your foot, but mostly she just said it 'cause of knives."

Finally snapping out of her shock, Buffy squats down and gathers the remnants of the dish into a smaller stack.

"I don't suppose there's any way my bestest witchy friends could maybe . . . fix?" she asks plaintively.

"Oh, heck, why not?" Willow grins. "I mean, Spike's face was in just as bad a shape as . . . as the . . ." her voice trails away at Buffy's horrorstruck expression, glancing between the remnants of the plate and into the living room, where Spike is still teething on his finger. "Er . . . Buffy, there's this new trend called exaggeration, where you say something is like something a lot worse than the actual something, but it's really not. As bad."

"Was it?" Buffy stares at Tara for the undiluted truth. "Really? How much did you two fix before he came here that night?"

The blonde witch looks over Buffy's shoulder at Spike, then back at Buffy. "It . . . it was bad. I'm sure the b-b-bruising showed most of – "

"Tara," Buffy almost begs, lowering her voice as Dawn comes thundering back downstairs with a few cruddy plates.

"His, um . . . his cheek, and his nose, and his j-jaw were . . . fractured." Tara's eyes drop to the platter fragments before she adds somberly, "Yes, as bad."

"Buffy!" Dawn exclaims as she arrives in the kitchen and sees the smithereens of ceramic littering the floor. "Mom loves that plate!"

Internally thanking her sister for the distraction, Buffy blinks away the tears of pity that have cropped up in her eyes. "But that's why we invited Wills and Tara, 'cuz the clutzy Summers duo would have nothing left to eat off but the tablecloth pretty soon."

"Here," smiles Willow. She turns an intense gaze on the pieces of china, which swirl together in a tiny white tornado. After three seconds, the whirlwind takes the nature of a spinning top, a single fixed shape rather than puffs and shards. Willow gives a brief nod, and the restored dish slowly finishes its rotation.

"You're absolutely totally the best friend a Slayer could ask for," Buffy raves, picking up the platter and setting it safely in its cabinet.

"Don't see why you got all worked up about the tooth," Dawn says under her breath as she hands her soiled plates to Tara. "I mean, how's one tooth worse than all his ribs and, like, every other bone in his – Spike!"

All four of the girls jump at the sight of Spike in the kitchen doorway, but thankfully nothing breakable bites the dust this time.

"Thought I'd bring my mug in, lend a hand," he mutters sheepishly, sliding the empty cup along the countertop so that it comes to a halt with a tiny _clink_ against the lip of the sink.

"No! Beat-up vampires do not help with dishes!" Buffy snaps, blocking his path to the sink.

"I'm not bedridden, Slayer," Spike snorts in exasperation, blue eyes flashing impatiently. "I hate muckin' about, bein' useless. Bet if I went patrolin' with you, I'd rack up more kills and dustings! I'm fine!"

Her eyebrows rise, and before he can react, she shoots out a finger and pokes him squarely in the ribcage. His sharp hiss of pain gives him away.

"Ooh! Look at the time . . . on the clock that is somewhere I can't see right now," Willow blurts out, suddenly squeezing Tara by the wrist and starting to haul her towards the door. "School night, Dawnie. And we have to study for our tests tomorrow, right, honey?"

"R-r-right, tests," Tara nods, stuttering not from shyness but from a brief delay as she figures out Willow's scheme. "M-many hard tests. With math. Goodnight, Dawn, Buffy."

" 'Night!" the Summers girls call out after them.

"Not a single 'sweet dreams' for the ailing housebroken vampire?" Spike asks with mock disappointment as the front door swings closed. "They wound me so."

"I'm going to my room, and I'm going to play _really_ _loud_ music until I decide to go to sleep, 'kay?" Dawn smirks at Buffy, jazz-hands waving in the air by her shoulders.

"Goodnight, Dawn," replies her sister frigidly.

"G'night, Spike!"

"Night, Lil' Bit," he grins affectionately as Dawn scampers into the living room, picks her stack of homework off the coffee table, and charges up the stairs. Then he turns his smile on Buffy, baring a bit more of his shining canines than usual.

"What?" she demands.

"Worried about my flashy grin, Slayer? Thought it might not grow back or somethin'?"

"I did not. I'm just . . ."

"A spaz? Or is this tied up with Watcher-boy goin' back across the pond on Saturday? 'Fraid he might let something slip to the Slayer-Babysittin' Club 'bout . . . a certain key?"

"I dunno," she grumbles. "He said he'd only mention Glory . . . and maybe say that there's a key, that Glory's looking for something called the key."

"You know if anyone tried to hurt the Lil' Bit, I'd tear 'em limb from limb, and no soddin' chip could stop me."

Wishing she could let his words reassure her, Buffy turns back to the sink and sets Dawn's plates and the empty mug into the soapy water.

"Lemme help," Spike mutters, grouchy tone returning as he moves to her side.

"No. Go rest."

"Been restin' for two soddin' weeks! 'Bout to die of boredom."

"Jeez, what's with the sudden dose of über-cranky?"

"Nothin'. Well, fine, then!" he caves when she throws a skeptical glance at him. "Bein' cooped up all the bleedin' time feels like it did when you threw me into that organ and sent the church blazin' down around my ears. I was in a soddin' wheelchair for months, hated the bloody thing. Didn't help that Angelus was screwin' Dru in our bed in the other room."

A cold shiver runs down Buffy's spine. So there's another drop in the bucket of 'Reasons Why Spike and Buffy Understand Each Other'. They both bear the scars of lovers' betrayal.

"Please, luv, lemme . . . lemme do laundry then. Somethin'. Anythin' to make the house nice for Mum. She's comin' home from hospital tomorrow, right?"

"Uh-huh. She had a week in ICU, then another for in-patient recovery. Her physical and occupational therapists say she's been doing great."

"I'll go make up her bed with clean sheets, see that nothin's out of place from the space beastie," he nods, turning towards the stairs.

"Spike, you don't have to – "

"I _WANT_ to!" he growls, pulling her hands away from the sink and spinning her around to face him. "Stop cagin' me up like an _animal!"_

His fingers clench around Buffy's upper arms, and her sudsy damp hands push on his heaving chest, barely keeping them apart. For a long moment, they just stare – startled green into frenzied, gleaming blue. Seconds melt by as they stand, tensely locked together, faces inches apart, bodies even closer. His angry, desperate scowl softens with each pant he takes, and his gaze starts to flicker from her eyes down to her glossy lips. He can taste her breath on his half-open mouth.

"I . . ."

"Spike . . ."

"Sorry, luv," he whispers, releasing his death-grip on her arms and backing away several paces. He lifts his hands above his head like a surrendering convict, eyes fixing somewhere along the floor baseboards. "I'll just . . . get the sheets, then. Clean ones in the linen closet?"

"Wh– . . . y-yeah," she stammers, still trembling from their close contact. "Yeah, in . . . in the bathroom. Top shelf."

"Right, then."

He maintains eye-contact with the floor as he heads for the stairs, leaving a quivering Slayer in his wake.

* * *

_A/N: "Triangle" continues in the next chapter._

_Yes, you read that right. Riley got killed by the flophouse vamps. I just thought he didn't deserve a nice death scene, and plus it would have detracted from the previous chapter. Hope that's okay with all of you._

_Spike's drool-inducing outfit was from "Crush". ;) Pretty-please leave a review. =)_


	13. Chapter 13: Trolling

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Hmm. Haven't heard a peep from you guys about the last chapter, which makes me a little worried. All constructive feedback is good feedback, so if you didn't like something, or thought a character was OCC, chapter didn't flow, etc, I want to know. Wasn't _somebody_ happy I killed off Riley? =)

"Five Words or Less" and "Chosen for More" have been nominated in the **Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards! **If you haven't yet voted and consider me or this story worthy of your vote, just Google "Sunnydale fanfic awards" and it should be the first link. Voting for Round 28 continues until June 30, 2013. Here are the categories I'm in: Best New Author – AGriffinWriter; Best Episode Re-Write, Best Conventional Pairing, and Best Unfinished – "Five Words or Less"; Best Fluff and Best Post-Series Finale – "Chosen for More"

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts part 2 of "Triangle", including both direct and slightly altered quotes, plus brief quotes from "A New Man", "Dead Man's Party", "Dead Things", and "Wrecked", and a reference to "Hush" about Spike putting the British cereal _weetabix_ in his blood to give it texture.

**Brief Disclaimer**: I am not anti-Xander; however, it is in-character for him to be the most outspoken anti-Spike Scooby (at first. Just wait and read). Also remember, just because Riley is gone/dead, that doesn't mean Spike and Buffy are going to hop in a bed together. She's too wary of his lack-of-soul-ness, and he has too much dignity to be the rebound guy from the rebound guy. Be patient, my pretties, and enjoy the fluff in the meantime. =)

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike recuperates at 1630 Revello Dr, but is antsy with nothing to do except provide Buffy with gooey sexual tension... uh, I mean, help Dawn with her homework. Joyce is ready to return home from her hospital stay. With Giles voyaging to England to investigate what the Council may know about Glory, who knows what mischief the unsupervised Scoobies might get into._

* * *

Chapter 13: Trolling

"Okay, Mom, watch your step!"

"It's the sidewalk, sweetie," Joyce smiles at her overprotective oldest daughter as they traverse the short distance between the car and the front door. "I've walked this way many times in the last five years."

"But never after major surgery and Close Encounters of the Third Kind," Dawn chimes in, dashing in front of the other two and opening the door to reveal the fiesta within. Strung across the stairwell is a flashy banner reading 'Welcome Home Joyce!' The girls usher Mrs. Summers inside and are immediately greeted with applause.

"Surprise!" Xander, Willow, Tara, and Anya cheer in unison, while Spike and Giles just continue clapping. "Welcome Home Mrs. Summers!"

"Girls, I have hospital hair!" she whispers to her daughters, turning pink as they pull her into the festive kitchen.

"Nonsense, Joyce, you look absolutely splendid," Giles replies, close enough to hear her distressed comment.

"Lookie, we have sparkling cider, and extra-nummy fruits and veggies," gushes Willow, pointing at the snacks arranged on the kitchen island. " 'Cuz, you know, no junk food or booze after surgery."

"Yes, thank you, Willow," says Giles somewhat awkwardly. "Cider, Joyce?"

"Please!"

As Tara and Giles distribute plastic cups, Buffy slips away from the group, sets her mom's suitcase by the stairs, and breathes a deep, contented sigh.

"You a'right, pet?" Spike asks, leaning against the dining room wall. To Buffy's complete astonishment, he's outfitted in _another_ googly-eyes-triggering set of clothes that she's never seen him wear before: professional-looking black slacks and a Prussian-blue shirt that's so form-fitting it must surely be over 50% spandex. His only visible lingering injuries are the persistent bite mark on his wrist and the rouge-like shadow on his left cheek.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm really good," she nods, fiddling with the back of one of the dining room chairs. "It's such a relief to have her home, you know?"

"Couldn't be happier for you, luv," he murmurs.

"And _we_ couldn't be happier that now that your mom is home, it's time for Evil Undead to move back to his dark and dank hovel," says Xander, nearly elbowing Spike as he hands Buffy a cider cup.

"Inviting me back to your parents' basement, are you, Harris?" Spike retorts, shooting Xander a derisive smile. "In't that sweet. Didn't realize you missed me so much."

"Shut up, Toothless."

"Xander," Buffy intercedes, mainly for the sake of keeping potential cider spills off the dining room rug, "Spike is still staying here for the time being. Mom's doctor said to make sure somebody is with her at all times for the first week, and with Dawn and me at school..."

"But why does it have to be _him_, Buff?" Xander demands. "I mean, can you really trust a backstabbing, bloodthirsty, soulless monster to keep your mom safe?"

"Standin' right here, y'know," Spike mutters at Xander's back before he heaves his shoulders in frustration and heads into the living room.

"Xander..." Buffy begins again.

"Plus, he's only trying to get good with you so he can get in your pa– "

"Xander!"

"What? It's the truth, Buff. He's got some kind of creepy obsession with you."

"So far, his 'creepy obsession' has saved Mom and Dawn's lives, helped Tara break off with her berserk relatives, and uncover the fact that my boyfriend was going behind my back to feed himself to druggy vampires," Buffy hisses, hoping their irritated voices won't carry over into the celebratory gathering in the kitchen. "That seems to me like Spike's good-versus-evil status currently stands at three-oh."

"His evil score is oh? The guy who killed two Slayers, spent a whole year trying to kill you, and then came _back_ to Sunnydale with the same game plan until he got neutered and became the number one pain in our butts?" Xander points out, chugging the remainder of his 4-oz cider cup. "And need I add _vampire_, century of throat-ripping rampage?"

"He can't hurt anyone directly because of the chip..."

"At long last, you see reason. When the warrantee expires on that thing – "

"I wasn't done," Buffy cuts him off. "I said he can't hurt anyone _directly_ because of the chip, but there are loads of other ways he could have killed us all besides fists and fangs. He could have set our houses on fire, slipped us poison, told other demons where to find us..."

"He tricked us into thinking we all hated each other," Xander counters. "Remember when he was Adam's little errand boy?"

Buffy's eyes implore the ceiling for patience.

"Oh, my gosh, Xander. That was, like, nine months ago. Get over it. If I was as grudgy as you, I wouldn't have spoken to you all of senior year."

"Huh?"

"Forgot about what a jerk you were when I came back from LA?" she demands, then lowers her voice and mimics him. " 'Welcome back, Buff. Thanks for running away and abandoning your sacred destiny and your friends and your mom and making Giles lie awake every night sick with worry'?"

Xander claps his mouth shut, memory clearly jogged.

"I just got my mother back, healthy, happy, and home," Buffy continues sternly. "She enjoys Spike's company. He's never threatened her, plus he's helped a ton with Dawn these last two weeks. Haven't seen _you_ stepping up to the plate."

"That's 'cuz the Dawnster's mad at Anya for winning at LIFE all the time and letting her try black coffee," he disputes feebly.

"Speaking of Anya, the thousand-year-old, man-hating, vengeance demon that you're dating..."

Xander shuts up once again.

"That's what I thought," Buffy glares. "This is not up for debate. Spike is here until he's fully healed and until we're certain Mom is fine. End of story. If you keep being a bad sport about it, there's the door behind you. You may recognize it. It has a knob and is made of wood."

Frustrated, Xander just heaves his shoulders, offering no further excuse.

"Thank you," sighs Buffy, taking her first sip of zesty cider as she turns to head for the kitchen.

"I still say he just wants to get in your pants," Xander mutters under his breath.

Buffy whips back around, scowling, but Dawn's voice draws her attention away.

"Mom? You okay?"

Buffy enters the kitchen from the dining room right as Spike rushes in from the living room, his eyes alert and tense. Joyce is leaning on Giles's arm, smiling tiredly.

"I'm fine, girls. No worries."

"I'm sorry, Mommy. Did we wear you out with all the excitement?" Buffy asks in concern, moving around Tara and Anya so she can take her mother's hand. "Scooby party too rowdy?"

"No, honey, it's just been a long day. I think I'll go up to bed."

Earning dirty looks from both Xander and Giles, Spike steps forward and helps Buffy escort her mom from the kitchen down the hallway to the stairwell, the rest of the gang following.

"I'll be right down here, kippin' on the couch," Spike tells Joyce. "Now, you need anythin' at all, just holler and I'll come runnin', fetch whatever you want, pet. Tea, pain meds, nightcap..."

"Mama's boy," Xander coughs.

Buffy sees Spike's hands clench immediately into tight fists, his azure eyes flashing with more than anger – almost _pain_ – but aside from a threatening rumble in the back of his throat, he doesn't retaliate. Tara also watches Spike out of the corner of her eye, trying to determine whether the sudden strain of dark blue running through his aura is caused by grief, or if it's just interference from his sapphire shirt.

"That's so sweet of you, dear," says Mrs. Summers, oblivious to Xander's remark and Spike's reaction. As she and Buffy start to climb the stairs, she calls down at the gathered gang, "Goodnight girls, Rupert, Xander, Will."

"Night," say Willow and Spike in unison, before turning to each other with startled looks.

"She meant me! She doesn't call _you_ Will. _Nobody_ calls _you_ Will!"

"Already said 'girls', didn't she? That covers you, Lil' Bit, Glinda, and demon chick," he nods at Anya, who, ignoring him, munches a celery stick and pours herself another full cup of cider.

"Watch your mouth, Deadbeat," Xander warns, about ready to punch Spike until Dawn sidles up to him and offers him some cider, which no one except Tara had even considered doing.

"Thanks, Bit."

"Sure." Dawn deliberately holds Spike's cup-free hand and throws a black look at Xander.

"Um, w-when is your flight tomorrow, Mr. Giles?" Tara asks in an effort to dissipate some of the tension.

"What? Oh... half past nine, I believe. Anya, if you want me to come by the shop before opening time, I could – "

"Hello! I work there! I'll take care of everything!" Anya retorts confidently.

"Um, Anya, while I trust you completely to take care of the inventory and the money... dealing with people requires a certain... finesse."

Anya looks affronted. "I _have_ finesse! I have finesse coming out of my _bottom_! I can completely lie to the health inspector. I can distract him with coy smiles and bribe him with money and goods."

"See there?" Xander says proudly, squeezing his excited girlfriend around the shoulders. "She'll be great."

"Don't worry, Giles," Willow reassures. "I'll help her take care of everything. It'll be ship-shape... Better! It'll be _shop_-shape."

Anya scowls across Xander's chest at Willow. "Xander, she's taking to Giles like I'm not here. Make her stop."

"What? I'm just trying to help out!"

"Perhaps I should call the airline, schedule an earlier flight back," Giles mutters to himself as he quickly removes his coat from the rack by the front door. "Give my love to Buffy, Dawn. Goodnight, everyone."

"Goodnight, Mr. Giles," says Tara, her voice mingling with Dawn's shout of, "See ya!" and Spike's muttered, " 'Ta, Watcher."

The front door closes, jarring Willow and Anya out of their tug-of-war over Xander's full attention.

"Wh... did Giles just leave?" asks Willow, looking appropriately penitent.

"You were distracted, sweetie," explains Tara with a shrug.

"Aww. A whole week without Giles."

"Must be a relief for him," Spike muses, swirling the few remaining drops of cider in his cup. "Sail across the briny, get free of you lot, finally get a chance to hear himself think without all the yammerin'. If I were him, I'd never want to come back to you bickerin' ankle-biters, Niblet and Glinda notwithstanding."

"Well, we wouldn't want you back either, Scarface," snaps Xander. "Just because Buffy's letting you loaf around doesn't mean the rest of us have to put up with your crap."

Spike aches to give his usual reply of _"Sod off!"_ but he lets the retort die in his throat, too anxious about Joyce to have any energy to throw at the whelp. Extracting his hand from Dawn's, he tosses his cup into the waste bin, grabs his duster from one of the kitchen chairs, and plods out to the back porch for a smoke. The zest seems to deflate from the remaining Scoobies one-by-one as they tiredly clean the kitchen of the party décor and food, and then the couples pair up at the front door, bidding Dawn goodnight. As soon as she locks the door behind them, Dawn scurries through the kitchen to the porch.

"Spike?" she calls quietly, hearing Xander and Tara's cars pull away down Revello Drive.

"Right here, Bit," he whispers, leaning against the tree under the porch eaves. He drops his cigarette butt, crunches it into dust, and then uses the sole of his foot to sweep the debris off the porch steps. "Think Buffy'd be alright if I patrolled tonight, so she and you could look after Mum?"

"What about your ribs n' stuff?"

"Feel fine. Wouldn't pull any tricks, no spinnin' roundhouse kicks, no funny business. Just enough stakin' to keep the Hellmouth crowd cowerin'."

Dawn considers him... mainly evaluating his tight blue shirt and how flatteringly it outlines his physique. "Okay, but promise you'll change first."

"What?"

"Buffy likes that shirt. You wouldn't want to splash demon guts on it or something."

Spike squints at Dawn then down at his own chest, perplexed. "Buffy... likes this? But... she didn't say anything."

Dawn gives him a _duh_ look. "Spike, Buffy has two eyes and at least part of a brain behind them. Of _course_ she likes you in that shirt."

_Well, if she put it _that_ way..._

"Right... I'll, um... I'll put my everyday wear back on then."

"Sweet."

They traipse back into the house, Spike to the living room, Dawn up the stairs. She notices the light on underneath Buffy's nearly-closed door, and waits until she hears an exterior door closing downstairs – indicating Spike has departed – before she pushes it a little wider and looks in on Buffy, who's curled up on her bed with a magazine open in her lap.

"Whatcha doing?"

"Playing soccer," Buffy murmurs without glancing up.

"Spike's out patrolling. Can I hang out in here?"

_Spike's patrolling? But he's hurt and healing... and... he feels useless, "caged" he'd said, "like an animal"_... Buffy bites back the argument that had started forming in her head, just hoping he won't do anything stupid enough to get himself thrashed again.

"Uh... sure, don't touch anything," she answers Dawn's question, still perusing the magazine. Dawn wanders in, looking at the corkboard above Buffy's desk.

"You took down his pictures," she remarks, noting a spot where a photo of Buffy and Riley had been prominently displayed.

"I was kinda in '_boom! Don't wanna see that face'_ mode," Buffy admits. She'd cleared her room of anything that reminded her of her ex the morning after they'd split for good, two whole days before the police report, which of course Dawn and the Scoobies knew nothing about. She hadn't even told Giles. Besides, as far as any contact with her was concerned, there wasn't difference anyway between Riley being dead and being in the Central Republic of Where-in-the-Hell.

"We should get pictures of us and Spike," Dawn suggests brightly. Buffy rolls her eyes.

"Dawnie, just because tomorrow's Saturday doesn't mean you can bug me all night..."

"What's the sitch on you and Spike anyways?"

"Sa'what?"

"You. Spike. Two weeks in our house and I haven't seen you kiss him even once. I thought for sure you were gonna have to give me the,_ 'Well, Dawn, when two people love each other very much, they make extra disturbing noises in the middle of the night, but it's okay, because they're not really hurting each other' _speech, like with Riley."

Buffy's face is somewhere between blanched white and blazing crimson, but is having trouble deciding which of the two extremes is the better response.

"The... we... no noises. We are not going to do anything, _anything_ leading to noises. I don't love Spike. Some of the time I'm not even sure that I _like_ him."

"Hasn't stopped you from checking him out all the time."

"I have _not_ been checking him out!" Buffy insists, abandoning her magazine and crossing her arms. Dawn gives her a disparaging look. "Only when he wore that grey thermal thing," she capitulates reluctantly. "And... maybe tonight, the royal blue with the three-quarter sleeves."

_Yes! Knew it! _"Yeah, the blue is hot."

"Dawn!"

"What? Spike's _totally_ hot. Not, like, temperature literally. Drool-over-his-bod literally, you know."

"Okay, time-out, young lady," Buffy begs, forming a T with her hands. "You can _so_ not talk about Spike like that. Number one, 'cuz _vampire_, and Summers girls have been-there, done-that, got the Saved-the-World-_Again_ t-shirt. Two, 'cuz you're fourteen and he's close to a hundred and thirty..."

"He was twenty-eight when he was turned. He told me."

"Re above, fourteen-year-old," Buffy insists. "That still makes him _twice_ as old as you."

"Uh-huh, and you made Angel lose his soul when you were seventeen."

"Whoa, there, Missie. You're asking to be grounded until the day you die – "

"But you know Spike's totally in love with you, right? I mean, it was already mega obvious _before_ he gave you that poem – "

"Poem? What poem?" Buffy splutters, completely thrown for a loop.

"You didn't even _read_ it?"

"Dawn, what are you –?"

Dawn heads for Buffy's desk and shuffles her homework and textbooks around until she finds the thin notebook Spike had brought to the hospital. Shoving the journal into Buffy's hands, she turns to the sonnet, scrawled in Spike's handwriting.

Buffy sinks slowly back down to the bed, her eyes widening with every potent phrase she reads: "_How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. / I love thee to the depth and breadth and height / My soul can reach... I love thee freely...I love thee purely...I love thee with a passion... I love thee with the breath, / Smiles, tears, of all my life! - and, if God choose, / I shall but love thee better after death."_

"Willow said Elizabeth Brownie wrote it," Dawn supplies helpfully, re-reading the poem over Buffy's shoulder.

"Browning," Buffy corrects her. She'd seen the poem in high school, but with all the slaying and the homework-avoiding and Principle-Snider-loathing, she hadn't ever had time to dwell on the beautiful words. But now, as she reads it and imagines Spike's voice in her ear... it's captivating. _Love... soul... free... pure... passion... life... death..._

"How did _you_ find this?" Buffy asks.

"You were calling Spike out for coming to the hospital to see you, and Willow and I found it while Mom was napping. Well, technically I found it, and Willow just had a bunch of know-how about the poet and stuff."

"Does anyone else know about Spike giving me this?"

"I'd say Tara for sure, maybe Xand and Anya too. Hopefully not Giles."

Buffy bites her lower lip. Xander's concerned accusations against Spike seem slightly more justified – from _his_ point of view – if he knows about this poem. The last thing brotherly Xander would want for Buffy would be another relationship debacle so soon after Riley, and to all her friends, _vampire romance_ is synonymous with apocalypse-level disaster. Not that she _wants_ Spike to be... No, no, definitely not. It's right there in his ballpoint-pen calligraphy: _I love thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach_. No soul, no love. End of discussion.

Buffy rapidly closes the notebook and whisks it into her nightstand drawer.

"I'm going to bed. Out."

"Buffy? Are you mad at me?"

"Just tired, and bummed that the welcome-home party turned into a '_Xander misinterprets and disagrees with all of Buffy's decisions'_ not-party. I'll make us pancakes in the morning when I'm all un-grouchy, okay?"

"You can't make pancakes," Dawn giggles mockingly. "They always end up charred on the outside but still batter-y on the inside. Besides, Spike always gets breakfast out for us. He knows where the bowls and the cereal and the bananas are."

"Well, maybe I'll surprise _him_," Buffy retorts, grinning with confidence. "Do we have any of that English cereal-bar stuff he likes to crumble up in his blood?"

* * *

Around three in the morning, Spike slips in through the back door, wincing with each step. He'd pushed his limits, charged into fights without taking clear inventory of his surroundings or the residual aches and pains that kept intensifying every time a demon fist sneakily made impact. In total, he'd dusted eleven vampires – most of whom attacked him in pairs or trios – as well as twisting the head off of a tentacle demon with oven-hot breath that stank like a Ginkgo Tree. Spike drops his duster in a chair, kicks off his boots, and pulls his sweaty t-shirt over his shoulders. Then he collapses full-length onto the couch, not even bothering to cover up with the blanket that he usually tosses over himself in case Dawn is the first to wake him in the morning.

He feels like his face has barely hit the throw pillow when he hears feet on the stairs and jolts back up off the sofa, banging his shin on the coffee table. Pajama-clad Buffy springs into the living room, charges right at Spike, and jabs her finger at his chest, coming close to the residual flesh-stitching marks over his heart.

"Buffy!" he gasps, "what–?"

"You are so sweet! And bad! Bad Spike! No more poems!"

Keeping her voice at a low hiss, she gives his bare chest a harmless poke, so fixated on her command that she hasn't even noticed he's shirtless. "Bad, gushy, make-me-wanna-love-you poems! No more! Not – one – single – solitary – rhyme!"

She emphasizes each word with another light prod with her index finger. Spike just stares at her in open-mouthed bewilderment.

"I mean it! No sonnets! No limericks! Not even a haikus!"

"It... it wasn't even my own work, pet. I just copied it out, courtesy of Mrs. Barrett-Browning," he stutters. "Didn't realize you'd take such a shine to it."

"Not shiny! You–"

Buffy's voice stalls in her throat as she realizes her finger is digging directly up against his ivory pectoral muscles, irradiant in the filtered light of early morning through the shaded windows. She thought she knew his body well enough from all their fights – her fists repeatedly meeting his rock-hard flesh, unconsciously memorizing the angles of his lithe figure, the ways his muscles layered against each other underneath his close-fit clothing. But she had never actually _seen_ him... every exposed, white, mouthwatering bit of him. His teasing complaint to Dawn that he was getting a belly was total blarney; there's not one inch on his athletic body that isn't lean and ripped, from solid deltoids and defined biceps to the sharp creases of his six-pack. His feet are bare and his bleached hair is sleep-mussed. He looks so human... and lickable...

_Whoa, mayday, Buffy's brain crossing too many lines with regards to chipped, dangerous, soulless... dreamy hunk of vampire hotness..._

Pulling her mind out of its nose-dive towards insanity, Buffy retracts her finger from where it had frozen with her nail just brushing Spike's satin skin, and backs up several steps.

"Umm... sorry, I woke you up," she mumbles, trying to focus on his eyes and not the tempting area between his collarbones and his belt buckle... or _below_ his belt buckle... _Ahh! Bad Buffy's brain! U.S.S. Buffy sinking fast! _"You... I... I'll just... breakfast."

And without another word she and her flushed face run into the kitchen. Stunned speechless, Spike listens to the sounds of clattering kitchenware, his mouth still agape. _The Slayer was eyeballin' me. ME... like a stallion she wanted to ride 'round the bend..._

Dawn's skipping footsteps sound on the stairs, and Spike digs frantically in his duffel bag, snatching up a fresh t-shirt and yanking it on as the brunette appears.

"Hiya Spike. Heard Buffy railing on you about that poem," she sniggers.

"Has she gotten into the beer again?" Spike demands, still unable to believe how Buffy's gaze had fixated lustily over his naked torso. "Little early for the good stuff, in't?"

"Guess again," Dawn beams. "She finally saw what was in that journal you gave her and kinda wigged about how ooey-gooey it was."

"Just now? You mean to tell me that you an' Red an' Glinda all knew I'd written it, but the lady herself hadn't the foggiest?" At Dawn's gleeful nod, Spike sinks back onto the couch with a fractious huff. "Well that's just... just dandy, in't. William the Bloody Worst Secret Admirer in the history of the inhuman race."

* * *

"Buffy?"

It had been two days; surely she could talk to him without fantasizing about all that supple, corded muscle under his black t-shirt and duster...

"Hmm?" Buffy responds distractedly, working through a stack of bills on the living room desk. Her ability to concentrate on anything in Spike's presence had taken a definite turn for the not-at-all.

"Thought I might patrol again tonight. Won't overdo it, just Restfield, check my crypt hasn't been invaded, then scout the Bronze for scroungers, maybe grab a pint at Willy's and see if there's any news about that Glory bitch."

_Don't think about the evil bloodsucking fiend... focus on anything but the evil bloodsucker and his Greek-god body..._

"Yes, go patrol," Buffy mumbles, trying to enter accountant-mode.

She doesn't see his face fall slightly, and the question "_Any chance you'd want to come with me, pet?_" shrivels up on the tip of his tongue.

"Right," he whispers, staring at the pigtail twists of her hair, since the back of her head is all she seems willing to show him. "Night, luv."

She waits until she hears the heavy clomp of his booted feet on the foyer before she dares to look up and barely catches sight of his blond hair disappearing behind the front door. Plunking her elbow on the desk, Buffy mutters darkly at the water bill.

"Don't you look at me like that. I didn't _ask_ to get an eyeful of him, or for him to be _way_ sexier than the last vampire who got me hot. Fine, yes, I admit. He's drop-dead gorgeous with an extra dose of dead. But Buffy is reformed. No more vamp boyfriends for Buffy, particularly bottle-blond soulless ones. Maybe I should look into a 5-step program... Uhh." She drops her head onto the paper stack and sighs disparagingly.

An hour or so later, during which maybe _one_ bill got filled out, the telephone rings.

"Summers', Dawn speaking," says her little sister's voice in the kitchen. "Hey, Buffy, Tara's calling. Something's happened at the Magic Box."

* * *

He's had a good haul tonight – staked five freshly-buried vamps in Restfield Cemetery, won a pint of blood and about a hundred bob off his demon poker mates, and picked the lock of the pet store on Main Street to slip his _other_ winnings, a basketful of tabby kittens, inside the door with a note reading, 'Housebroken, Need Good Homes', or some such piffle. Strolling into the Bronze, Spike liberates a tankard of beer from a distracted patron and gives the club a look-round as he sips it, searching the crowd for incognito demons. Just as he's decided the place is vamp-free, someone's side collides with his shoulder blade and nearly sends the rest of the beer down his front.

"Hey, watch it... Oh, it's you," Spike chuckles, recognizing the buffoon of the Scooby Gang.

"Spike. Don't let me stop you from not being here," Xander huffs, picking a small bowl of peanuts off the counter and handing over some change.

"I was here first, you know."

"Uh-huh. Go away." Xander turns around, sits at a small table, and starts cracking the peanuts.

"Now why would I do that, when it's buggin' you so much havin' me here?" Spike grins, following Xander and polishing off his own beer. Xander ignores him and continues to shell peanuts in silence, giving each one a good glare before he pops it in his mouth.

_Something's definitely pissed off the whelp for him to be mad at his comfort food_, Spike ponders, taking the seat across from him. "They've got chicken wings, too," he suggests, attempting solidarity. "Also a sort of flower-shaped thing they make from an onion. It's brilliant."

Xander glances up at him, too worn out to make his perplexed expression look angry enough to deter Spike.

"Are you talking to me hoping I'll get so depressed I'll impale myself on a fork right in front of you?"

"Lovely thought," Spike almost laughs, reaching for a peanut.

"Hey! Those are mine!"

"My, my. Someone's in a temper. Care to share?"

"_My_ peanuts. Get your own," Xander scowls.

"Didn't mean the snacks, you bugger," chuckles Spike. "If I'm not mistaken, you're havin' trouble with your ladies. Girlfriend's jealous of Red, and Red's peeved that you take Vengeance Gal's side. Stir it up, add a girly cat-fight, you're left with all-'round bad morale in the Slayer's ranks."

"Quit being insightful, you... sallow creep," Xander mumbles, his cheek full of peanuts, but Spike can tell he's hit the mark. Standing up again, he removes a pair of pool sticks from the wall bracket and offers one to Xander.

"I'll break, mate."

After a few seconds hesitation, Xander throws in the metaphorical towel and joins Spike at the pool table. Within ten minutes, he's spilled the whole story of how he and Tara fled from the Magic Box as the argument between Anya and Willow reached a high point.

"Willow's my _best_ friend, and I really value her opinion, but Anya's my _girlfriend_, you know? Then they both look at me like _I'm_ the referee," he sighs, pocketing another ball. Spike watches, nodding sympathetically. "Also, sometimes I'll say something about Anya, and Willow'll get this look, this '_what the hell do you see in her_' look."

"I know that look. Lots of people never got Dru, you know."

"Well, she was insane."

A few months ago, such a comment would have drawn at minimum an irritated growl out of him, but Spike isn't even bothered by the jab at his sire, too preoccupied with his seeming success at winning over another member of Buffy's inner circle. Xander flubs his second shot, and Spike lines up his own, but as he preps, a burly coated arm thumps his shoulder.

"Does everyone in this soddin' joint have to bump into me tonight?" Spike demands irritatedly, turning on the latest offender. His eyes widen and slowly rise up the newcomer's massive frame– nearly seven feet tall, with peeling green skin, unkempt red hair, and Viking-hat-like horns, minus the hat.

"On second thought, do what you like," he mutters at the robust troll, whose hairy nose is scouting the club.

"ALE!" the monster shouts gruffly, advancing on a waiter with a dolly of two kegs. "YES! FRAGRANT ALE!"

The troll picks up the top keg one-handed, bites into the aluminum, and starts draining it.

"So, uh, think I should run and get Buffy?" Xander whispers nervously in the back of Spike's ear.

"Wouldn't be amiss, mate. Cripes. Poor Watcher's only been gone two days and already Sunny-hell's fallin' into disrepair."

"YOU THERE!" the troll suddenly growls, advancing on the pair of them before Xander has time to move. "DO YOU KNOW WHERE THERE ARE BABIES?"

Spike glances back at Xander... and can't resist the urge to watch him squirm for a moment. Evil's gotta get some minor kicks somehow.

"Whaddya think, hospital?" he grins.

"What! Shut up!"

"Tell you what, mate," Spike turns back to the troll. "What say you an' me head over to this little joint I frequent, play a round or two of poker for kittens?"

"Kittens?! You're gonna feed him _kittens_?" splutters Xander, starting to turn blue.

"You'd rather him eat _babies_? Harris, I'm shocked."

"Uh... what about... er... roast pigs," he suggests to the multicolored monstrosity. "Or stags... and much hearty grog."

"They've also got this onion thing," Spike tacks on helpfully.

"YOU CANNOT APPEASE ME!" the troll rumbles. "DO NOT TRY! MORE ALE!"

He stomps back to the terrified waiter and starts to drain the second keg. Spike jerks his head at the door, and he and Xander start inching toward it through the transfixed crowd of club-goers. They're almost at the exit when Anya and Willow come rushing in, breathless and windswept.

"Xander!" Anya gasps, threading her arms around Xander. "You shouldn't be here! There's a troll."

"Big guy? Hammer? I think we noticed him," says Xander as the unappetizing sounds of guzzling continue.

"It was the smell that gave it away," Spike shrugs, aiming his thumb at the troll.

"I wish Buffy were here," Willow whimpers.

The Bronze door blasts open again, and Buffy rushes in, tailed by Tara.

"I'm here," she pants, wearing a '_What'd I miss?_' expression that Spike finds simply adorable. To him, there's no one else in the club, just flustered Buffy with her striped pink top and her fluffy girlish pigtails that he madly wants to run his hands through. She, however, seems determined not to afford him a single glance.

"I wish I had a million dollars," Willow says excitedly. "Just checking," she mumbles when the group stares at her oddly.

Buffy suddenly spots the troll, who is polishing off the second keg. "What's going on? Where did _he_ come from?"

As Willow opens her spellbook, Anya starts to explain about Olaf emerging from the purple troll-releasing crystal, but a clatter of aluminum silences them both.

"STOP!" Olaf the troll bellows, red eyes fixing on Anya. "YOU! YOU TOLD THE WITCH TO DO THAT, ANYANKA. YOU SEEM DETERMINED TO PUT AN END TO ALL MY FUN, JUST LIKE YOU DID WHEN WE WERE _DATING!_"

Buffy, Spike, Tara, and Willow all turn their skeptical faces towards Anya, while Xander looks ten times more flabbergasted than the other four combined.

"You _dated_ him?" he splutters.

"You dated a _troll?_" Buffy demands. _And I thought _my_ boyfriend choices were called into question_.

"He wasn't a troll _then_," protests Anya. "He was just a big, dumb guy, and... well, he cheated on me and I made him into a troll, which by the way is how I got the job as a vengeance demon..."

Before she can finish, Olaf swings his hammer over his head and destroys half the bar with one thundering stroke.

"I DID NOT CHEAT! NOT IN MY HEART! IT WAS ONLY ONE WENCH! I HAD HAD A GREAT DEAL OF MEAD! NEXT THING I KNOW, I'M A TROLL!"

Willow hefts her spellbook again, but her incantation is cut short by a bellow from Olaf as he bears towards them, hammer raised. Buffy stops him with a heavy kick to the chest, and Spike flanks her, fists at the ready. At the next careen of the hammer, Buffy ducks in time, but Spike misjudges the length of the troll's arm and flies backwards into the shattered bar counter. Buffy's rapid-punch sequence hurls Olaf onto a pool table, only for his next hammer swing to propel her through the air and straight into Spike's lap. He bites back a grunt of mixed pain and stimulation, made even worse when she rotates, her knee accidently grinding on him.

"You okay?"

"Ow. Yeah," he quickly whispers, grateful for the half-second of eye-contact before she blinks. He smirks but reins in his demon's suggestion to cop a few inappropriate feels as Buffy gets up, pulling him along with her.

Olaf, meanwhile, is chopping through the supports of the Bronze's balcony level. Screaming clubbers run amok, and Xander pulls Anya and Tara away from the shuddering mezzanine, joining Willow in the doorway.

"Cut him off!" Buffy orders Spike, who dashes around to the troll's other side, trying to fend him away from the last column.

"Buffy! Come on!" Willow frantically screams as Olaf, ignoring the vampire, raises his hammer to the final support. With a resounding _SMASH_, the pillar breaks and the second floor of the Bronze collapses, raining debris down on the Slayer.

"Buffy!" Spike shouts into the dust, his heart in his throat.

* * *

_A/N: To be continued..._

_The full E. B. Browning sonnet is in Chapter 7. That's what clued Willow in that Spike loves Buffy. As one of my reviewers (ZombieKillerLevi) so aptly put it, "Dawn just ships it like a boss"._

_Spike dusting eleven vampires is an inside joke/insult to Riley, whose total lifetime vampire-staking quota as of "A New Man" was eleven. I just thought I'd show that Spike can do better in one night, even though still recovering from injuries. ;) And he wore the gorgeous blue shirt from "Beneath Me". This isn't the last we'll see of this ensemble._


	14. Chapter 14: Insatiable

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for every single review and for telling me that you did like Ch 12 after all. =) Feedback is always appreciated!

Sorry for the longer-than-normal update wait. My life is like Olaf the troll's cousin, chasing me around the streets of Sunnydale with his troll-god hammer. And in case any of you noticed, yes, the rating did go up to M. The main reasons for that are the torture and canon/non-canon character deaths (yes, death_s_, duh-duh-duh!) ... but also because there will be some _very mild_ Spuffy smut... _eventually_...

Speaking of which... **Obligatory smut warning**! Brief and steamy, not explicit.

"Five Words or Less" and "Chosen for More" have been nominated in the **Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards! **If you haven't yet voted and consider me or this story worthy of your vote, just Google "Sunnydale fanfic awards". Voting for Round 28 continues until June 30, 2013. Here are the categories I'm in: Best New Author – AGriffinWriter; Best Episode Re-Write, Conventional Pairing, and Unfinished – "Five Words or Less"; Best Fluff and Post-Series Finale – "Chosen for More". Thanks ever so!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts part 3 of "Triangle" (transcript and shooting script, where angry Giles comes back early), including both direct and altered quotes. Also quotes from "Bargaining part 1", "The Initiative", "Crush", and "Doomed".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: After two weeks of living at the Summers' house, Spike sneaks out to patrol, returns exhausted and sweaty, and leaves himself vulnerable for a poem-giddy Slayer to gawk at his delicious body. Xander overcomes his hatred and distrust of Spike enough to play a round of pool with him. Left unsupervised when Giles makes a quick trip to England, Anya and Willow accidently release Anya's ex-boyfriend-now-troll, who rampages through the Bronze and drops the loft level down on Buffy..._

* * *

Chapter 14: Insatiable

"Buffy!"

Spike scrambles through the settling dust, shoving aside fallen furniture, sound speakers, lighting equipment, and two-by-fours. Dazed but still sporting all her limbs, Buffy struggles out from under the rubble of the Bronze's balcony level, bench-pressing a beam that has landed across her torso. Converging on her, Spike holds up the wooden board so she can unearth her legs, wriggle free, and get to her feet.

"Where did–?" she starts to ask, but then a leather-clad shoulder muffles her mouth, Spike grasping her in a tight hug.

"Bloody hell, Slayer," he breathes roughly in her ear. "Didn't you hear us shoutin' at you to get clear? Could've been crushed."

"Spike, I'm okay," she reassures him, attempting and failing to disregard how tingly she's getting from being pressed firmly against his hard body.

Eyes still panic-ridden, Spike loosens the embrace but keeps her close, looking her up and down. "You sure you're alright, luv? Still got all your girly bits?"

"Spike!" Buffy gasps loudly as his strong, slightly-callused hands ghost down her sides – from underarms to hips, and then around the backs of her calves and thighs, checking for injuries. A beat later, he realizes _exactly_ where his hands are exploring.

"Oh God!" He leaps backwards, arms behind his back. "Buffy, I'm sorry! Wasn't feelin' you up, I swear! Not that I... You're gorgeous, a'course, but I wouldn't... Don't stake me!"

"Don't be stupid. I'm not gonna stake you."

She can't very well throw stones at him after how dirty her rebellious mind has been for the last two days, _and did he just call me 'gorgeous'?_

"Uh..." _C'mon, Buffy, reboot your brain_... "Where's the troll?"

"Gone," Willow calls out to her as she and the rest of the Scoobies help pull injured victims from the wreckage. Buffy turns on Bossy Slaymaster Mode.

"Right... Xander, follow him. Anya, Willow, head back to the magic shop, find a spell that will _actually_ stop him."

The three of them obey, leaving Buffy, Tara, and Spike to clear away the demolished second floor and tend to the wounded bystanders. Though she tries to stay focused, Buffy's eyes keep wandering over to Spike, who is unashamedly demonstrating that neither his chip nor his beating at Riley's hands have hampered his superhuman strength and his ability to sniff out the buried and often unconscious humans. Tara recites some healing charms over the most badly hurt Bronze-goers, and when the paramedics arrive, Spike and Buffy deliver those needing critical attention out to the wailing ambulances.

As the vehicles pull away toward the hospital, Buffy and Spike return side-by-side into the vandalized Bronze. Encouraged by the kind looks she kept shooting his way, he dares to run the knuckles of one hand up the back of her arm, and she sighs contentedly, wishing she could forget about tracking and slaying the rampaging troll and just relax. _Stupid destiny_.

"Lil' Bit safe at home with Mummy?" Spike asks, affectionately caressing her arm with his knuckles again and hoping that the miniscule shiver that ripples down her skin is a release from tension, not a shudder of disgust.

"Uh-huh." She turns to face him. "Time to track down the tr– Spike! You've got blood on your shirt!"

"What?" he glances down at the dark stain on his breast. "Oh... must've been from carryin' a couple of these blood-covered people out to the ambulance. I wasn't samplin', I'll have you know. Could, but I wouldn't. Knew you wouldn't like it."

"I wasn't accusing you. I... to be honest I thought your stitches had ripped or something."

Spike rolls his eyes and kicks at a fallen table. "What am I, a soddin' rag doll? I'm good as new, pet. Even the knittin' mess or whatever Red did over my heart is healed up since you saw..."

Their eyes lock, both of them recalling in explicit detail Buffy's flustered reaction to bursting in on him half-naked the other day.

"Anyhow," Spike recovers first, diverting the thread of discussion, "it'd take more than a berk's bit of plastic to leave a scar on me, Slayer. Only have the two."

He scratches his neck, adjusting his t-shirt briefly so she can glimpse the faded mark of Drusilla's fangs. She glances from it to his left eyebrow, marred with its little white V, almost a wishbone shape – the weapon mark of the Chinese Slayer he'd killed a century ago. Buffy realizes how much she likes that tiny scar, the character it gives his otherwise flawless face, that ever-present reminder that he's dangerous, a fighter.

"Well, kudos for not feeding off bleeding disaster victims," she smirks, bumping his shoulder with her own.

"Didn't even taste _you_ the night that pillock vamp caught you with your own stake," he murmurs in quiet reflection, remembering his frantic dash to the deserted magic shop, the way her glorious scent had washed over him, covered him, drowned him. "Could've... wanted to... want you so badly..."

The way he whispers it makes the breath catch in Buffy's throat and a slight heat start to pool in her stomach. In his low, yearning tone, the bloodlust topic seem mainly about the lust and not so much about the blood.

"Uhh... we should... go troll-hunting," she says quickly, turning to flee the premises before her ability to make logical decisions shrivels away to dust-bunny-size. Beckoning Tara, Buffy waits for the witch at the back door before rushing out into the alley.

"What's it take?" Spike mutters to himself, brushing dust from his coat shoulders and following the girls. _What's a bloke got to do to get it through your silly little shampoo-commercial head that he's breakin' his heart pinin' over you? Almost rather go back to havin' all your hatred and your venom than this soddin' awkward game, with you pretendin' not to notice me, fightin' how much you want to be close. I've already made the first moves, luv, first dozen, more like. What more do you want?_

His head buzzing with these grim mutterings, Spike tails Buffy and Tara down street after street, easily tracing the troll's destructive trajectory until they arrive back at the Magic Box and burst through the door just in time to watch the cash register disappear with a puff of smoke. At the sight of the Slayer, the troll drops its grip on Xander, and he crumples into Anya's arms, bleeding copiously and cradling his broken wrist. Enraged, Buffy plows into the room and drives her fist into Olaf's stomach, Spike right behind her.

"Buffy, the hammer! His strength's in the hammer!" shouts Anya.

Spike ducks under the giant's swinging mallet and kicks him in the back of a knee, forcing his face within the reach of Buffy's punches. While Willow begins another incantation, Anya starts to yell vehement insults at the troll, attempting to draw his attention away from his attackers, but Olaf seizes Buffy by the throat and lifts her into the air.

"Oi! Drop her, you oaf!" Spike snarls, latching his arms around the troll's neck from behind and trying to yank him off balance or at least keep him from pounding Buffy with his weapon. "Eh!" he shouts as the hammer starts to glow green. "Will, what the – ?"

The hammer swings back and bashes into Spike's right hip, flinging him across the room and into the rubble of a display case, then a second later Buffy smashes into the opposite wall.

"And your menacing stare is merely alarming, and your roar is less than full-throated!" Anya screeches desperately.

"DESIST!" growls the hairy menace, stomping up to the ex-demon. "WOMAN, IT'S BEEN A THOUSAND YEARS, AND YET YOU ARE AS AGGRAVATING AND EMASCULATING AS EVERY YOU WERE!"

Spike starts to stand, but howls in pain as soon as he puts weight on his leg, something in either his upper thigh bone or pelvis fractured by the hammer blow. "Gahh! Bloody hell!"

"Spike!"

"Get his hammer!" he bellows at Buffy, watching the weapon in question radiate green light again and sail out of its owner's hand to the center of the floor. Buffy dashes to it, hefts it easily in one hand, and swings it in a powerful arc over her head.

"He still has all that troll strength!" Anya reminds her, helping Xander get to his feet and huddling with Willow behind the counter.

"Noted," pants Buffy, laying into the thunderstruck troll with kicks and the magical mallet.

"Yeah! Get 'im, Slayer!" Spike cheers her on. Leaning against a wall, he hobbles up onto his uninjured leg, cursing and holding his bashed hip.

Buffy drives Olaf back and forth across the room, repeatedly pounding his face with his own hammer. Thirty clobbering hits later, the troll lays supine on the gritty Magic Box floor, knocked unconscious. Willow rushes over, already halfway through an incantation.

"... And let the transposition be complete!"

The red-haired ogre shimmers and vanishes.

"Where did you send him?" Buffy demands.

"The land of the trolls. He'll like it there, full of trolls," explains Anya, her arms tightly wrapped around Xander.

"It's hard to be precise, though," Willow admits. "Alternate universes don't stay put. Trying to send him to a specific place is sort of like... trying to hit a puppy by throwing a live bee at it. Which is a weird image, and you should all just forget it," she adds, noticing the awkward stares of all the shop's occupants.

"It's possible he could be in the land of perpetual Wednesday, or the crazy melty land, or, you know, the world without shrimp," Anya informs them.

"There's a world without shrimp?" Tara asks excitedly. "I'm allergic."

"Well, he's probably in troll land," shrugs Willow, squeezing her girlfriend's hand.

"I only care that he's not here, and I got this nifty souvenir," Buffy grins, leisurely lifting the hammer and setting it on a glass-topped case... which shatters a second later, the hammer and all the contents smashing into the display bed.

"Oops," Buffy whispers, biting her lip.

Across the room, Spike squares his shoulders, takes one step forward, and bites back a sharp gasp as he falls to his hands and knees again. "Oh, sod it..."

"Spike!"

" 'M alright, luv," he winces as Buffy rushes over to him. When she runs her hands up his chest and back to help him rise and limp over to the others, he's certain his heart revs back to life like a glowing train engine and thuds away at 160 beats per minute. She seems to notice, because she flattens her left palm against his t-shirt and keeps it there.

"Kinda Thor-worthy," Xander grins, still looking at the troll hammer. "Not to complain about the excruciating pain in my wrist or anything, but can we go to the hospital now?"

"You all go," Buffy nods towards Xander. "I'll take Spike back to the house and relief Mom from Dawn duty."

"Go with 'em, Slayer, I'll walk back myself," Spike grumbles, absolutely hating the fact that he's at sub-par fighting ability yet again.

"Walk? You can barely stumble, maybe even lurch."

"I'm _fine_," he hisses. "This is nothin'."

"You have a really twisted definition of nothing. Your 'nothing' is like 'oh, look, there's one urn that isn't broken, so everything is unbroken'."

"This is a really terrible mess, isn't it?" Anya sighs, looking around the shop interior at the mingled shards of glass, pottery, and magical artifacts. "I hope Giles doesn't take it out of my wages."

"Maybe we can hide some of the broken stuff later," suggests Willow.

"Marvelous," says an irate British voice in the doorway.

"Giles!" all the girls and Xander gasp, turning to see the shop's proprietor behind them.

"You got the earlier flight! Yay," Willow cheers with forced enthusiasm. Giles is staring at the devastation, a slightly maniacal smile on his face.

"Uh... we won," Buffy says brightly, wondering if Giles's hysteric look has anything to do with the fact that her arms are still wrapped around Spike. _But in a 'helping him stand' way, not like a 'wanting to touch his body' way... oh, wait... probably both..._

"Um... Giles?" Willow whimpers. "Could you maybe make an angry face? 'Cuz the smile is kind of scaring me."

"The damage. Was it a demon?" he inquires through the gritted teeth of his insane grin.

"Troll," supplies Anya. "Willow and I released him during an argument about Xander, but we're friends again now. Willow likes Xander too, but not in a sexy way 'cuz she's gay, and she won't try to break us up, so it's all okay. And then we used magicks to stop him."

"A troll. Excellent. Simply capitol," Giles snorts, his voice unnaturally high. "Anything else?"

"He c-collapsed the l-l-loft at the Bronze," Tara stutters fearfully. "But Buffy and Spike and I helped everyone get out."

"And he broke my wrist," Xander adds, lifting his arm pitifully.

"Splendid! Well, after I drive you to the hospital, I'll just take my things to my flat and have a substantial amount of scotch!"

"Wait!" Anya digs in her pants pocket and unearths some small metal objects. "The keys to your car."

"You drove my car?! How marvelous! How perfect!"

"We didn't crash it," Anya insists optimistically.

"Not at all," adds Willow. "And the troll didn't hit it with his enormous godly hammer or anything."

"Fabulous!" Giles huffs, snatching the keys from Anya. "Buffy?!"

"Yes!" she squeaks, reflexively squeezing Spike's chest a little tighter.

"I must speak to you privately about..." His slightly calmed face turns homicidal again as he stares at a blank spot on the counter. "Where... is... the cash register?"

Willow's cheeks turn the color of her hair. "I can make it reappear again, I think."

"Well... do that," Giles says stiffly. "Come along, Xander. Buffy, I'll be at your home at eleven to discuss matters with you, assuming I haven't drunk myself into a stupor or turned back into a Fyarl demon."

"Okay," she nods frantically. "Please don't turn into a demon again, Giles."

"Right-o." With one more furious puff of breath, Giles stomps out of the doorway. Anya and hospital-bound Xander shuffle after him, while Tara looks through a spellbook for a vanishing-cash-register reversal charm.

"Oh, no. He's snapped," Willow murmurs in horror, staring through the smashed entryway as Giles surveys his precious sports car for dents, continuing to mutter sarcastic exclamations like "brilliant" and "smashing".

"Poor, poor Watcher," Spike chuckles, trying to mask his pain and humiliation as Buffy helps him hobble to the doorway. "Luv, don't patronize me. Just find me a stick."

"What?" she gasps, face inches from his. "I'm not letting you stake yourself! It's just your leg! You'll probably be better tomorrow!"

"Not a stake, silly girl, a _stick_. Crutch, staff, some'it like that. So I don't have to lean on you so much."

"Oh," Buffy blushes, not minding being his support. "I'll try to spot one on our way home."

As they exit the Magic Box and begin an uneasy gate down the street, Spike attempts to grasp nearby parking meters and street poles, struggling to support his own weight.

"Stubborn chauvinistic vampire," Buffy mutters playfully, refusing to let go of his right side.

"Am not!" he growls sullenly. "Has nothin' to do with you bein' a girl! It's 'cuz it's _you_, pet. Just can't stand you seein' me like this. Sick of bein' so bleedin' thrashed and helpless. I can almost hear what the demon rabble say of me these days: _who's the Big Bad now, just a half-crippled, toothless, love-sick vampire pinchin' the crumbs that fall from the Slayer's table? You better be good, kiddies, or else they might wire you up someday_!"

"Spike, you're not..." She stalls, noting his use of _love-sick_.

Leaning slightly on his left leg to take the pressure off his right hip, he shrugs her arm away and turns her to face him, his expression utterly dejected. "I mean... am I even _remotely_ scary anymore? Tell me the truth."

Buffy evaluates him appreciatively – his typical black garb, harshly slicked platinum-blond hair, a few barely noticeable cuts and bruises from smashing into the wreckage in the shop. His overall exterior is as punk-rocker and tough looking as usual, perhaps even enhanced by the fight marks and limp-induced stoop of his shoulders. She saves his face for last and dwells on every detail: his high angular cheekbones, full lips pouting, forehead creased in self-depreciating worry, sparkling eyes almost robin's-egg-blue in the darkness. _Wait, what did he ask me?_

"Well?" he demands, increasingly discouraged by her silence.

"Well... you..." _It's kinda difficult to judge your scare-factor fairly when I have an overwhelming desire to bite your lower lip_... _whoa, Buffy, down girl..._

"Giles," Anya says loudly and animatedly from fifty feet behind them, "I know something that will distract you from how trashed the shop is."

"And what might that _possibly_ be?" retorts Giles in utter disbelief, helping Xander maneuver into the back seat of the red BMW.

"Well, I think Spike got himself injured again on purpose so he could stay in Buffy's house longer. You know, because of his big crush on her."

Giles accidently smacks his elbow down on the car horn. Buffy pauses with Spike on the very edge of earshot.

"I beg your pardon?" the flabbergasted Watcher demands. "Spike has a _what_ on Buffy?"

"Didn't you know?" inquires Anya, her tone the quintessence of innocence. "Spike gave Buffy a love poem before Joyce had her brain surgery. He's obsessed with her, but in a sex way, not in a wants-to-kill-her way."

"He is _what?!"_

"Ahn, maybe this isn't a good time –" Xander tries to interrupt, but his voice is instantly drowned by Anya, too overjoyed that Giles's fury has been diverted from her and Willow.

"Oh, yes. That's why Riley got jealous and whored himself out to backwater vampires. He knew Spike had a thing for her and thought they were having sex."

"He thought _WHAT?_"

"Pet, let's scarper before he gets his crossbow out of the trunk," Spike advises nervously, resuming their rickety pace in the direction of Buffy's house. She continues aiding him but stays silent for the next several minutes, wondering just how mad Giles is going to be at eleven tonight, or what critical information he learned from the Watcher's Council is important enough for him to deem it necessary to tell her tonight.

"Buffy, I didn't hurt my soddin' leg on purpose," Spike whispers honestly after another wordless city block, fearing her muteness is caused by suspicion of his motives.

"I know."

"Hurts like hell, but I'll clear off soon as we get back, get out'a the way of whatever Rupes wants to tell you. Just gimme time to pack my stuff up."

"You don't have to leave."

"And why's that, then? I'm no bleedin' good to anyone."

"You are. Dawn loves having you around, and so does Mom." _And so do I..._

He seems to sense her unfinished response and watches the palm of her hand on his chest shift slightly, as if trying to hold him more securely, cling to him. He can see the house numbered 1630 a half-block down Revello Drive, the upstairs lights confirming that Joyce and Dawn are still awake. On a hunch, he stops up short, and Buffy automatically takes one step past him before halting as well, almost pulling him over from the tightness of her arms around his mid-chest.

"Hey, why'd you –?"

"Do _you_ want me around, luv?" he challenges. "Just doesn't seem like you've needed me for anythin'. No new sorrows in your life to make you come cryin' on my shoulder, not that I'd ever wish one on you!" he retracts quickly. "You've had more bleedin' heartache than most humans thrice your age... but, if you've got other reasons for keepin' me 'round your place... if you _want_ me there, even if it's as simple as knowin' I've got your back... nothin' the Hellmouth or Hell itself could throw at me could make me leave."

His declaration floors her, and the intensity of his piercing eyes seems to be reaching inside her head, sorting all her prudence and inhibitions into tiny locked boxes labeled '_Do Not Open, Care of William the Bloody, Esq_.' Trying to withstand temptation, Buffy loosens her arms from around him, gazes down at the asphalt, and shuffles a toe over a faded paint line.

"Buffy? Hey, look a'me."

Buffy complies, makes eye-contact, and immediately inhales sharply and blushes, eyes turning pavement-bound again.

"What'd I do?" Spike protests, mystified.

"Stop that."

"Stop _what_, luv? I don't understand."

"Stop making me want to kiss you."

A beat of silence arcs between them, and then Spike's eyebrows sail upward. He draws in a long breath, as though applying fireplace bellows to whatever tiny spark of hope he has for acquiring her affection.

"Oh, _that_'s what's got you so high-strung?," he queries with a hint of amusement, leaning forward to close the short distance between them. "If I'd known you were strugglin', I would've made it harder for you to resist."

"Spike, I..."

She raises her head in time to see him start to lower his, and only her gasp and tiny flinch of surprise prevents their lips from meeting. Foiled, Spike continues even though her head is turned, pressing a light kiss to her cheek, then to the corner of her mouth.

"Do... you... want... me... luv?" he repeats his earlier question more slowly and alluringly, interspersing each word with another brush of his lips across her cheek. " 'Cause you know what I feel. Probably tired of hearin' me say it."

"I'm n-not... not tired of it," Buffy stutters, gliding her hands up his chest again, but only to maintain the diminutive gap between their bodies. "I... I can't say it back, though. Still not sure... what I should... what I feel..."

"Doesn't matter," he whispers, using every ounce of his self-control to slip his arms gently around her waist and not crush her against him like he wishes he could. Though he endeavors to stay calm, his breathing hastens, becoming shallower and more rapid with each little kiss he bestows on her cheek. "I love you, Buffy. I love you. Love you so much..."

"W-w-we should go home," she says shakily, her internal resistance threatening to crumble from hearing the heady sound of his breathing in her ear. "It's gotta be past t-ten by now."

"Go home and then what, luv?"

"Th-then... we wait for Giles."

"To stake me?" he asks, genuinely concerned.

"No!" The absurdity of his anxious question finally gives Buffy a second to clear her head, and she pushes on his chest, separating them until her arms are taut. "To hear whatever he learned from the Council about Glory."

"S'pect Ol' Watcher won't be too forthcomin' in front of me, pet," Spike shrugs. "Not after demon girl's babblin'."

"What's he gonna do, _not_ tell me just 'cuz you're there?" she counters, moving back to his right side and bracing him.

"Wouldn't put it past him," he smiles. Whether its his rejuvenated vampire healing or his rush of euphoria from kissing Buffy, his leg doesn't buckle quite so much as they make their way down the street and into the house. Spike divests himself of his duster, drapes it over a footstool, and glances at his duffel bag, most of the contents of which are still folded inside. The lower floor of the house is dark, and Buffy wanders into the kitchen to see a half-empty box of anchovy pizza sitting on the island countertop.

"Guess this means Dawn picked dinner," she surmises. "At least she ate _something_."

Humming jovially, Spike follows her, nicks a slice, folds it in half, and takes a huge bite before limping over to the fridge and retrieving one of his pigs-blood jars.

"Wa' an'thin', luff?" he asks with his mouth full, indicating the fridge.

"Chew, swallow, then speak, you savage," snickers Buffy. "And, no, I'm good. Just gonna go up and check on Mom."

"A'right. But I'll put the kettle on, in case you want a cuppa while we wait up for Rupert."

"Thanks, Spike."

Withstanding the sudden urge to run over and kiss his pizza-sauce-stained lips, Buffy turns on her heel and heads upstairs. The door to the master bedroom is already open, and the first thing Buffy sees upon entering is her mom's trusty blue bathrobe tossed carelessly over the end of the bed. A second later, Joyce emerges from the attached bathroom, wearing pants, a striped sweater, and a rust-colored head-scarf to hide the patch where her hair was removed for surgery.

"You!" Buffy says with mock surprise. "You, with the actual clothing. Who are you? Hey, Dawn, Spike, come look at this!"

"Whoa!" Dawn assesses, arriving long before Spike, who manages to pull himself up the stairs and glances hesitantly into the master bedroom.

"No more bathrobe," Buffy beams, indicating the offensive item of sleepwear.

"Yes, I looked at it today, and there it was, all blue and fuzzy... and I just couldn't stand it anymore," sighs Joyce.

"I don't think the rest of us will miss it much either," says her eldest.

"It was getting a little ripe, Mom," Dawn wrinkles her nose.

"Maybe we should burn it," adds Buffy, on a roll now.

"It would keep the bugs away."

"Oi! Lay off the lady with the hole in her skull," Spike protests, poking Dawn in the small of the back. He smiles at Joyce from behind the two smirking sisters. "Happy to see you up an' about, Joyce. Just take care not to tire yourself, a'right? Rupert's back and is droppin' by in a bit. I've put the water on. Milk an' sugar?"

"Oh, yes, please, just sugar," says Joyce, sitting back down on her bed and retrieving a book from her nightstand. As Dawn returns to her room, Buffy pulls her mom's door nearly closed and then stands in front of her own room, watching Spike hobble across the hall to the staircase.

"I'm onto you, mister," she smiles smugly. "You're buttering up my mom."

"I haven't the foggiest idea what you're goin' on about," he replies with a twinkling simper, twitching his head as the microwave signal beeps downstairs. "You comin', pet?"

"Yeah, just putting pjs on so I'm less uncomfy while we wait for Giles."

Spike nods and stabilizes himself with the railing on the way back down, rubbing his sore thigh. Returning to the kitchen, he extracts another slice from the pizza box, removes his cup of warmed blood from the microwave, and chugs the viscous fluid, sighing at the relief that flows through his battle-aching limbs. He thoroughly rinses the crimson liquid from the edges of the mug and deposits it in the dishwasher before strolling into the living room to repack his duffel, waiting for the teakettle's contents to boil. By the time Buffy's bare feet thump down the stairs once more, he's finished the second pizza slice and stuffed all his belongings back into his bag.

"What took you?" he asks with his back to her, forcing the duffel's zipper shut. "I was 'bout to call up and ask if you wanted..."

He stands up and turns around in the same motion, right as Buffy reaches the bottom of the stairs. His mouth falls open at the vision before him – his girl, looking soft and vulnerable in a scarlet v-neck sleeveless nightgown that barely touches her knees, her golden hair loose, waves cascading down her bare shoulders.

"Blimey, luv..." he whispers, voice rough, "you're so beautiful..."

Buffy blushes, the flames of color on her cheeks complimented by her red top, and scurries into the kitchen to turn off the burner under the now-whistling kettle. Spike follows, barely aware of his own legs moving, his lungs accelerating their long-unnecessary pumping of air, trying to get oxygen through his aroused body. He watches every tiny movement she makes as she hunts in the refrigerator for leftovers to reheat, crosses to the microwave, and pops an opened Tupperware container into the machine.

_So much pretty tan skin... Oh, God, is she wearin' that for me?_

His demon wrestles inside his chest like a rabid badger in a cage – goading him with the sudden intense craving to ravish her right then and there on the kitchen floor – and his hand shakes as he reaches for the teakettle, sickened by the series of thoughts and suggestions that flit through his mind.

"Spike? You okay?" asks Buffy, still reeling from his praise but recovered enough to notice his tremors.

"Yeah..." _Course I'm bloody-not okay, when you're flashin' so much gorgeous flesh at me..._ "Um, Mum takes two sugars?"

"I think so. You've made her tea more often than I have." _Especially during these last few days when I couldn't be on the same floor of the house as you without thinking about your abs_...

"Right. Be back in a mo'."

Clearing out of the room as quickly as he can manage, Spike heads down the hall and mounts the stairs, slowing his pace to let the lust-fueled pressure in his groin deflate by the time he reaches the upstairs landing. He raps his knuckles against Joyce's door and then swings it farther open when she gives a cheerful, "Come in."

"Got your tea, pet."

"Oh, thank you, Spike. Rupert here yet?"

"No. Said he'd come 'round at eleven or so. Got some kind of update from his tweedy mates about the Glory cow– sorry, Mum, should'a put a brake on my tongue."

"Bad-mouth that devil-woman all you like. Anybody who tries to hurt my girls is not high on Mom's Happy List."

Smiling, he rotates the mug in his hands to offer her the handle, and she accepts it appreciatively.

"Buffy's told you, hasn't she?" asks Mrs. Summers softly, cradling the cup. "About Dawn?"

"Yeah," Spike nods. "Told me a while ago." _Told _me_, not her meathead army brat. Me. She trusts me, even if she doubts she'll ever love me... 'cuz of what I am, what that kind of love has done to her, nearly split her pretty heart in two..._

With a twitch of his head, Spike realizes he's gotten lost in his own thoughts while still standing in Joyce's bedroom. "I'll... Buffy and I... we'll be downstairs waitin' on Rupes."

He bows his head to her, then retreats to the landing as a low undertone of noise indicates Buffy has turned the television on down in the living room. Sure enough, when he gets to the foyer he can see his nightshirt-clad stunner nestled on the couch, the TV remote in her hand as she lowers the volume. With no preamble, Spike saunters into the room, sits adjacent to Buffy, and anchors his arm around her shoulders.

"Spike," she exhales, in that same '_I know what you're up to_' tone as earlier.

"What, can't a man put his arm 'round the woman he loves?"

"You're just trying to see down my neckline."

"I am not!" he roars, deeply stung, then bites his lip and glances upstairs, hoping his shout hasn't disturbed the house's other two occupants. Then he notices Buffy's smirk.

"Aw, you knew full well I wasn't lookin' you over," he insists morosely. "Just want to be close to you. Hardly ever get the chance."

"Well, you were being so mopey about it. I had to give you a hard time."

"Tease," he mutters.

"Sap," Buffy quips back.

"Vixen."

"Slayer-phile."

Neither one of them knows who moves first, whose eyes signal the other sooner. All they know is that if they don't start kissing, the heat in the room is going to burn them both to ashes. Their mouths clash, rough and needy, Buffy's hot hands on his t-shirt collar to pull him ever closer, Spike's fingers twisting into her silken hair.

Three seconds later, a hand raps on the door.

"It's Giles!" gasps Buffy, trying to rise from the couch and detangle herself from Spike's tight embrace.

"No, stay," he begs, clinging to her upper arms, lips against her jaw. "He can let 'imself in..."

"And _see_ us?! He'll stake us both!" she protests in a whisper, ignoring Spike's disappointed groan as she separates herself completely and dashes to the front door.

"Giles!" Buffy exclaims, disguising her passion-roused adrenalin rush with enthusiasm as she welcomes him in. "You didn't drink yourself stupid... stupored... you know."

"Indeed," Giles replies, hanging up his overcoat. "Xander's wrist has been seen to. Nasty break, but with a cast for a few weeks..."

Giles's voice fades as he catches sight of Spike, who hasn't moved from the couch.

"Uh... cuppa for you, Watcher?" he asks, quickly standing, hoping to placate the clearly displeased guest. "There's this herbal peach flavor Joyce raves about."

"No," Giles answers curtly. A door closes upstairs, and Mrs. Summers joins them, carrying her half-empty cup of tea. Giles's expression softens somewhat at the sight of her.

"How are you, dear Joyce?"

"Much better. I think I have decided to burn the bathrobe," Joyce says with a wink at her daughter. The three of them enter the dining room, but when the two adults sit, Buffy continues through to the kitchen and intersects Spike, pacing in from the living room. They stare at each other for a long, heady moment, desperation in both pairs of eyes.

"Tea?" Spike whispers at last.

"Okay."

"Are you upset?"

"No."

"Do you want me to kiss you sm'more?"

"Ye– not now!" she hisses, lowering her volume even more, petrified that Giles will overhear. His chest still heaving with rapid breaths, Spike pours hot water into another mug and drops in a teabag. He knows that if he hands it directly to her, the slightest brush with her fingers will be enough to set him off again, so he leaves the cup on the counter and strolls around the island to help himself to a third pizza slice.

"Your leg is injured, not hollow," Buffy smirks at him.

"What? I'm hungry, a'right?

"But people-food doesn't nourish you. Only blood, which technically I guess is _people_-food."

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate a good hand-tossed, luv," he grins, licking tomato sauce off a finger. " 'Sides, distracts me from _other_ desires..."

And he purposefully lets his eyes sweep over her, lips curving into a licentious smile.

"You... you bad boy," Buffy glowers, running out of insults and rushing over to grab her teacup.

"Mmhmm," Spike murmurs at her back, desperately wishing he could put his hands where his eyes are lingering. "I'm _very_ bad, baby."

Ignoring the tingle that runs down her spine, Buffy hurriedly carries her tea into the dining room, and Spike listens to the light conversation while he waits, needing time to squelch his libido again.

"I cringe to think what the place might have been like if I'd stayed away longer than three days," Giles says to Joyce, after briefly explaining the troll-related travesty in a surprisingly calm voice.

"Well maybe we would have had time to clean it all up," Buffy suggests brightly. "You know, if Willow had used some magicks to help."

"Yes, because nothing could possibly go wrong with that."

His tone turns more serious, indicating dire news from his trip. Buffy swivels in her chair and looks over her shoulder toward the vampire in the kitchen, her eyes beseeching him to join them. Polishing off his final pizza slice, Spike ambles forward and leans against the doorframe between the kitchen and dining room, meeting the glare that Giles directs his way.

"This is a private conversation, Spike."

"Good thing I'm in on it, then."

With his gaze remaining on Giles, Spike pushes off the doorway, stalks around the table, and sits on the opposite side of Joyce, directly across from the livid Scooby patriarch.

"Buffy, surely..."

"It's okay, Giles. Spike knows."

"_He_ knows?" Giles demands, eyeing Spike disdainfully.

"He's the only person I told besides you," Buffy mumbles into her cup, not noticing how Spike thrills at this confirmation of her trust in him.

"And Joyce?"

"I got some if it myself," Mrs. Summers informs Rupert. "Buffy told me the rest."

Slightly gobsmacked, Giles interlocks his fingers on the table runner. "Well..." he clears his throat, refocusing. "It appears that, had Travers and his associates been more lucid, a simple telephone call would have been enough to convey their utter ignorance. Despite their insinuations to the contrary, they had no record of Glory or anyone like her, but based on what I've told them, they are going to look into it. They might have something soon.

"What about the key?" asks Buffy anxiously. "Were they all over the key?"

"Well, they were interested, certainly. And full of theories, most of them nonsensical."

"But they didn't guess about Dawn. They don't know it's h–"

"Hold up," Spike suddenly whispers, hearing an infinitesimal creak on the stairs. "That you, Platlet?" he calls in a louder tone.

Busted, Dawn clumps down the rest of the steps and pokes her head around the corner.

"Dawnie," Joyce sighs. "You should be in bed. I thought you went to sleep an hour ago."

"I did. Just overheard the midnight meeting," the teen admits guiltily. "Hi, Giles. That was a short vacation. What'd ya do, hop off the plane and get right back on once they turned it around?"

"Very nearly, it seems."

Anxiety in her large eyes, Dawn looks from Buffy, to Spike, then back to her sister. "Buffy, why'd you say my name just now? Who's guessing about me?"

Dead silence floods the room, four brains thinking fast. Spike is the first to push his chair back and rise.

" 'Member when Buffy turned eighteen, Niblet, and those ne'er-do-well Watchers fired Giles for bein' all Father-like?" As she nods, he continues, "Seems they've still got knots in their tweedy knickers about the Slayer not bein' their precious little puppet anymore. We're just hopin' they don't have some pervert scheme regardin' you, somethin' to blackmail Rupes and Buffy. That was our Watcher's hush-hush mission, after probin' their guesses 'bout the Glory bint."

Watcher, Slayer, and mother are stunned speechless, their own paltry excuses paling in comparison to Spike's rapidly fabricated lie. Dawn glances gratefully at Giles, who quickly removes his glasses and commences scrubbing them with a lens cloth, avoiding her stare.

"Thanks, Giles," the girl says softly, tiptoeing over and squeezing his shoulders. "Did'ya tell those old farts that Spike'd totally eat them if they tried to kidnap me?"

Giles chokes on air, either from Dawn's hug, her use of the term '_old farts_' to describe his colleagues, or the realistic mental picture of Spike ripping the throats out of anyone who sought to harm the Summers women. Try as he might to hate the vampire and worry about his apparent fondness for Buffy, his loyalty is laudable... _and by Jove, he's a frightfully good liar_...

"I'll go back to bed now," mumbles Dawn, releasing the Watcher and exiting the room. "Night, everybody."

"Night, Bit."

"Sweet dreams, darling," says Joyce, while Giles and Buffy still struggle to regain their oral motor functions.

"Well... that... Good Lord."

"Gosh, Spike," Buffy breathes. "Now I'm actually scared. The Council wouldn't _really_ abduct Dawn or anything, would they, Giles?"

"Certainly not... I hope."

"You _HOPE?!_"

"Buffy, honestly, do calm down," he scolds. "There was no indication of anything of the kind."

"But what happens if..." she stops and glances at Spike, who nods and circles the table until he can see up the now-empty stairs.

"All clear, pet."

"Thanks." She turns back to Giles. "What if they do figure it out? What would they do? What would happen?"

"I don't know."

Joyce sighs, sort-of a shiver. "Well, I can't think about this anymore. It's too..." She shudders again, then picks up her and Buffy's teacups and walks into the kitchen. Giles also stands.

"I must be going, let you and your mother rest."

Buffy follows him into the foyer, wringing her hands. "Sorry you had to go all the way to England to find out they didn't know diddly. That sucks."

"No trouble, my dear." He watches Spike cross behind Buffy, heading for his duffel bag in the living room. "And... I assume Spike is leaving as well, since he clearly no longer requires care?"

"I guess so, if he wants to leave."

"Buffy," Giles lowers his voice to a whisper, "are you aware of... something Anya and Xander informed me this evening, concerning Spike's... singular attachment to you?"

"Yes."

"And... you're not... troubled? Disturbed?"

"I've made it clear that his... feelings... aren't returned. That it's for sure a one-sided thing."

"Ah," Giles nods, moderately appeased. "Alls well then. Training tomorrow?"

"Two o'clock," she confirms. Giles retrieves his coat, opens the front door, and shoots Spike one more disdainful glance before he departs, traversing the driveway to his car. Duffel bag in hand, Spike approaches Buffy.

"Bye, pet. I'm sure I'll bump into you 'round town, seein' as I'm the kind of creature that goes 'bump' in the night," he smirks at his own pun.

"You really can stay, Spike" Buffy shrugs. "Your leg..."

"...Is serviceable already, and I'll have another drink before bed to keep patchin' it up."

"_Blood_, not whiskey, right?"

"Yeah, blood," he grins. "Never thought I'd hear the Slayer reminding me to take my plasma before bedtime. What next, hot water bottle? Bedtime story?... Goodnight kiss?" he adds hopefully after a pause.

"Giles is still outside," Buffy whispers, smiling guiltily. Spike is clearly taken aback.

"You mean you'd consider that last bit if Watcher Dearest wasn't puppy-guarding?"

"Maybe," smirks Buffy.

"Not so very _one-sided_ after all, eh?" he queries, confessing he'd overheard her.

"Guess you'll have to come back another night and find out."

"Ooh, Slayer... never tease a man in love. You might get more than you bargain for."

With a Cheshire-cat grin, Spike sweeps out the door, hefts his duffel more securely over one shoulder, and backs a few steps down the drive – letting his sparkling blue eyes get one last view of his nightgown-clad love – before he heads down the street, limp concealed by his confident swagger. Buffy waits until Giles starts his engine and zooms away in the opposite direction before closing the door, escorting her mom back to bed, and slipping into her own bedroom, her skin singing at the adoring look Spike had trailed over her.

* * *

"Buffy?"

Twitching out of restless slumber, she sits up in bed and watches Spike softly close her door. His face is creamy alabaster, all bruises and temporary scars healed. He's wearing the stretchy blue shirt again, a dark and calming color, setting off his tantalizing eyes. Even in the darkness, every ridge and angle of his body is perfectly outlined.

"Spike? I thought –"

"Shhh," he murmurs, shoulders swaying as he approaches the foot of her bed and pulls his belt out of his black jeans.

"Spike, what is it?" Buffy says, quieter this time, or perhaps the increasing tempo of the pounding in her ears just drowns out the sound of her own voice. "I thought you'd left."

" 'Cept then you mentioned me comin' back and findin' out somethin'," he smirks.

"I didn't mean _tonight_," she mouths, albeit flattered that he's stolen back into her house and risked the possibility of Giles-wrath to see her again so soon.

"I've been thinkin'." Spike sets one knee on top of the covers, then leans forward into a tiger's prowl, staring into her eyes. "Remember a few weeks back, you sayin' how you weren't so sure whether the bit in your brain tellin' you I'm just a monster was gonna win out against the bit tellin' you I'm a man?"

Though that wasn't really the way she'd expressed it – that early morning after Riley's last act of cruelty – Buffy realizes this is precisely the tug-of-war she's subjected herself to: whether the fact that Spike is a soulless vampire is a strong enough deterrent to outweigh the many acts of love and kindness he's displayed toward her, Dawn, Joyce, and others in recent months, or if his apparent change of heart is sufficient to waive the century he spent in delinquency, carnage, and murder.

"Yeah, I remember," she breathes, lying down flat again as he slinks closer to her, moving over her without touching. The last time he'd been in this position, several months ago, he'd tried to bite her, only for his definitely-still-there chip to provide his own personal electric chair inside his brain. But now, instead of just predatory... it's erotic.

"See, luv, it seems to me that since you show me both sides of your coin – the Slayer warrior half, and the Buffy woman half – doesn't seem fair for you to be so biased if I show you mine. Thought I'd slip in and help you make up your mind."

He grins... devilishly... carnally... monster and man in equal measure, and both parts sending her heart-rate through the roof.

"Spike, I – "

He leans down and invades her mouth with his, all cool and tenderizing. Inhibitions vanishing, she clutches the back of his head in both hands, feeling the crispness of his hair gel under her fingertips, pulling him down, demanding more out of his lips and his talented, icy tongue. Even though his skin is lukewarm, everywhere he touches seems to blaze like pavement under a summer sun. His hands move gently down the front of her red nightshirt... cupping... squeezing...

"Oh. Ohhh, Spike..."

His throat rumbles, purring at her gasps of pleasure. One hand remains at her chest, while the other slips farther down between the sheets, tracing the outline of her hip and thigh before it catches behind her bare knee and hitches her leg up around his waist. All the while he kisses her mind-numbingly, and when she turns her head to gasp for breath, his lips continue against her cheek, jaw, ear, the column of her throat. She grips his hair in her right hand while the other clasps his upper back, pulling him down, flattening her body beneath his. _When did his shirt come off?_

"Spike!" she pants faintly. "M-mom and Dawn will hear us!"

"You gonna scream for me, Slayer?" He tilts his hips, rocking against her through the covers.

"Ohhhh, yes... Oh, Spike..."

"That's my girl..." And with a wolfish gleam in his eyes, he rips away the sheets, yanks her nightgown up, and lowers his head between her thighs...

_Whir-ir-ir-ir-ir-ir-ir!_

"AAGHH!"

Buffy jolts awake and backhands her alarm clock into the opposite wall with a _CRASH_ before the lust-driven red haze over her eyes fades enough for her to realize it was a dream.

"Buffy?" calls Dawn from the other bedroom. "You okay?"

"Fine!" Buffy squeaks back, her whole body still trembling copiously as her hormones start to re-balance, a process that only a long, ice-cold shower will truly straighten out. "Weird dream."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	15. Chapter 15: Under Watchful Eyes

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for every single review! =) Feedback is always appreciated! This chapter is part fluff, part plot, dash of "lusty wrong feelings".

I've been nominated in the _Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards_, round 28! Voting continues until June 30, 2013. Here are the categories I'm in: Best New Author – AGriffinWriter; Best Episode Re-Write, Conventional Pairing, and Unfinished – "Five Words or Less"; Best Fluff and Post-Series Finale – "Chosen for More". Thanks ever so!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts "Checkpoint", including both direct and altered quotes. Also quotes from "Once More with Feeling", "Touched", "Doomed", "Intervention", "Helpless", and "Crush", and one priceless quote from **Angel**: "The Girl In Question". I couldn't resist.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The troll is poofed off to another dimension, Spike noms anchovy pizza, Giles reports that the Watcher's Council members are ignoramuses, and Buffy has a naughty dream about Spike (in case clarification is needed, only the very last scene was a dream. The kissing and the mutual lusty wrong feelings are real)._

* * *

Chapter 15: Under Watchful Eyes

"Oww! Bloody buggerin' hell!"

Spike leaps back from the wires and shakes his electrocuted hand, then puts the two worst-burned fingertips in his cool mouth. Soddin' city utilities with their soddin' exposed cables! 'Course what's to be expected from a town with more maneuverable sewer lines than streets and a near-third of the population bein' of the non-human variety?

Since leaving the Summers' house, he's spent a good four days doing little else but working in the basement level of his crypt, trying to make it... habitable. The very first task was to take all of the nicked clothing articles, photos of Buffy, and pieces of the mannequin, and stash them from a cardboard box hidden under his bed – after how close Dawn had come to sneaking downstairs and seeing his shameful collection, he wants it well concealed. Then the real work had begun: sweeping, dusting, prying the skulls and bones from the walls, rearranging the empty coffins into makeshift shelving units... he feels like a ruddy Molly Maid.

By comparison, the maintenance-type labors are less emasculating. Aside from the extension cords running power up to his television and refrigerator and a faucet over the crude sink he'd already installed, by now he's reinforced and dead-bolted the sewer entrance, manipulated both hot and cold water pipelines into a shower – not much more than a glorified conduit outlet with a sprinkler-head screwed on it, jutting from the cave wall about six feet off the ground – and nearly completed his last wild scheme: jerry-rigging a phone line.

"That'll be one hell of a conversation starter," he grumbles to himself, stomping over to the sink to run cold water over his blistered fingers. "Evenin', Buffy. Got anythin' I can scribble my number on? Ring me up anytime. N'case you want... want to talk. Whisper in a dead man's ear..."

He sighs, watching the water trickle over his hand. "Who am I bloody kiddin'?"

Once he finishes digging out the necessary cables and attaches the corded phone he swiped from the junkyard, Spike sidles up the ladder and over to the fridge. Opening it, he takes a jar from the top shelf and just tips his head back, chugging deep gulps of the swine-flavored stuff. Until the blood had touched his tongue, he hadn't realized how thirsty he...

Spike pauses and tilts his head, staring at the Mason jar he's just drained. Had he eaten at all that day... or the day before? Come to think of it, when had he last slept? The second day he'd been back from Buffy's house, he'd woken in the mid-afternoon with a crick in his back and a sharp ache in his healing thigh, having zonked out on his floor in the crypt lower level. Had he caught a wink since then?

"Blimey... what's happenin' to me...?"

The answer comes to him almost as soon as he whispers the question into the semi-dark mausoleum. _Love-sick_. Hadn't seen his girl in four bleedin' days, and he was already halfway to balmy, not sleepin', not eatin', turnin' into a regular broodin' ponce.

"Well, bugger that!" he scoffs, slamming the jar onto the stone coffin closest to the fridge. It's time to kill something, purge the restlessness from his system. Shrugging on his duster, Spike strolls out into the cemetery, a stake in his pocket. In less than a minute, he hears the rustle of freshly laid earth being disturbed, then punching and yelling... the voice that makes his undead heart flutter.

"Miss Summers!" Buffy shouts, just out of his sight.

_Why in blazes is Buffy callin' her own name, or it Dawn she's scoldin'?_

"Some of us are here to learn, _professor_!" she continues irately. He can see her now, duking it out with a newly risen vampire whose funeral clothes are still dripping clumps of dirt. "Maybe you'd like to teach your _own_ class!"

"Who are you talking to?" demands the confused vamp. A second later, he lands a punch into Buffy's face.

Rage boils under Spike's skin. Vaulting over a headstone, he grabs the soil-encrusted vampire by the back of his collar, spins him 180-degrees, and plows a knee between its legs. _Touch my girl, will you?! Like that, eh?!_

The fledgling tries to stand back up, but Spike kicks his knees out from under him, yanks his stake from his duster pocket, and drives it home. As the dust settles, Spike looks over at Buffy, who's still seated on her bum on the cemetery turf where she'd been knocked down.

"You okay, pet?"

She just scowls fiercely. Crossing to her, he offers his hand and pulls her back up to her feet. When he releases her fingers – holding on for just a moment longer than necessary – she _humphs_ and pats grass bits off her black leather trench coat.

"Why'd you do that?" she grumbles.

"What, save you?" He shrugs, perplexed by her mood. "Just for an inklin' of your heartfelt gratitude... I expect I'll be getting that any moment."

"I was regrouping."

Spike's grin widens. "You were about to be regrouped into separate piles. You needed help."

"My hero," she mutters acidly. "Now find me something else to kill. Buffy smash."

"Tsk tsk. What's got your garters in a twist, Slayer?"

"Nothing."

"Oh no. You're not getting' off that easy, luv. I already tried the 'nothin' card on you, and you called me out on it. Tell Ol' Spike what's wrong."

She ducks her head into her shoulder and grumbles under her breath, looking so positively adorable that Spike clenches his hands behind his back to help himself resist sweeping her into a bear hug and smothering her with his lips. _Come to think of it, she still owes me a goodnight kiss... perhaps I ought'a charge interest..._

"And he said Speculation 101... Intro to Flights of Fancy..." she glowers, faintly whispering.

"Come again, luv?"

Giving the starry sky a pouting scowl, Buffy finally looks Spike in the eyes.

"Stupid history professor made a fool out of me, just 'cuz I asked a question about Rasputin being almost unkillable."

Spike couldn't stop smiling right now if his unlife depended on it. "Well I'm sure he's a smarmy git who's got no appreciation for the occult and supernatural, luv. Wouldn't know a real vampire 'nless it bit him in the arse."

He glows triumphantly as Buffy finally cracks a smile.

"Almost wish you would."

"What, bite his unbelievin' arse?"

"Maybe just scare him."

"Say the word, pet. I'll make him so terrified he'll wet himself. If I didn't have the chip, I'd do a real number on him. Make it look like a _painful_ accident."

Buffy's eyes shoot him a warning.

"A'course..." he shrugs, backpedalling, "I still wouldn't do that... 'cuz I bat for the other team now."

"You're gay?" Buffy snickers.

"_The white hats_," he retorts. "The good guys. Justice an' puppies an' Christmas, or whatever. B'sides, you know full well who I've got the hots for, luv."

He sticks his tongue between his teeth and his thumbs through his belt loops, sweeping his eyes appraisingly down her whole body. To his astonishment, Buffy doesn't recoil, smack him, give a disgusted "Ugh!" or show any of the responses he expected. Instead she looks... _flattered_, blushing coyly, almost _goading_ him!

Her demure expression only lasts for a moment; she seems to catch herself, shakes her head slightly, and stomps away in search of other slayable demons. Spike keeps pace with her, debating how to steer the conversation toward his refurbished domicile.

"Spike," says Buffy glumly after a few minutes, "Rasputin _was_ a vampire, right?"

Spike shrugs, kneels over a fresh grave, and twists off the head of the emerging vampire before it can even get its shoulders out of the dirt.

"Don't rightly know, luv. Ol' Raspy wasn't famous during the years I spent in Russia, and by the time he'd made his unholy name known, I was halfway 'round the world. You said he seemed nearly immortal?"

"Yeah, they poisoned him, and beat him, and shot him, and drowned him, but there are reported sightings of him as late as the 1930s."

"Sounds to me like he must've been some manner of demon, if it makes any difference."

"Not so much to Professor Roberts, dark master of mean red grading pens."

"My arse-biting offer still stands."

This time, Buffy giggles openly. As he's standing back up, brushing dust from his knees, in the very corner of his eye he sees her gaze flit across him, mirroring the way his blue orbs had brushed over her. _Well, well! Guess I don't have to be flashin' the goods to get a lusty look-over from my girl_...

"Nah. You probably wouldn't be able to get the awful taste out of your mouth for years," Buffy finally answers, looking around the graveyard. "How about we just beat up demons until the cows come home? And then maybe beat up the cows."

"My kind of date, Goldilocks." _There's that teasin' naughty look again! What's goin' in that silly brain of hers_?

They slay their way through several more rising vampires, whom Buffy treats as though they're all wearing name badges with "Professor Roberts, Bigot Extraordinaire". Spike leaves the actual staking for the Slayer, assisting by hamstringing the vamps or flinging them head-first into tombstones until they're out for the count. Once her anger at her mean instructor is mostly abated, Buffy opens up about the most-recent Scooby meeting.

"And then Giles said the Council of Watchers figured out something supposedly important about Glory that they didn't bother to rustle up a week ago. And then he said they're arriving, as in _coming here_ to Sunnydale any day now."

"What, they think the super-skank would tap their phone line?"

"That's exactly what Xander said, except he was more, like, 'Ello, Buffy, 'ere's some stuff we know, pip pip."

Spike winces, unsure whether the blame for the atrocious imitation of a British accent is Xander's fault or Buffy's in the relay. But... speaking of phones...

Before he can divert the discussion, Buffy turns glum. "And Dawn walked down the stairs just then and overheard stuff."

"Nothin' about _her_, right? Just the Council nasties?"

"Yeah, just me bumming 'cuz of all the scary, horrible versions of Giles who are gonna show up in my town with a high probability of screwing it up, it has to be Travers. He's the one who put me through the Crux-a-mental."

"Cruciamentum?"

"Yeah, that thing. The last time I saw Travers, he fired Giles and congratulated me for surviving being attacked by a mangy serial-rapist-turned-vampire who kidnapped my mom and nearly killed us both." Remembering something, she grins. "Then I told him to bite me."

Spike laughs and – pushing his luck – slips an arm around Buffy's shoulder as they continue strolling slowly through their third cemetery of the night, scouring the grassy knoll for the undead. She's warm, thrumming with energy from fighting and slaying. He expects her to shrug him off, only to nearly trip in amazement when Buffy's arm crosses behind his lower back, snugly anchoring him to her side. She sighs, staring around at the starlit gravestones, crypts, and figures of angelic beings, while Spike just savors her touch, enraptured by the half-embrace she's bestowing on him.

"You distracted me," she mutters, squeezing his waist a little tighter.

"I'm a distractin' sort. Maybe it's the hair."

"No... it's 'cuz I love talking to you, Spike."

Thankfully she can't see his face, Spike lets out a tremulous breath through barely-parted lips, as though she's caressed him intimately, speaking words so very close to the ones he's longing to hear. Pulling unneeded air back into his lungs, he tries to refocus on her next phrases.

"You were right, what you said a while ago. I'm scared to be honest with my friends. Not just about Dawn and Glory and how sometimes I wish I could just say 'hit the road' to slaying and destiny... I'm scared to be _me_. I have to be tough, the prom queen of evil-fighting. Sometimes it's so hard to keep all these stupid secrets and problems from everybody."

"You can tell me anything, Buffy. I'll always listen, always be here for you."

He didn't mean for his voice to suddenly become so intense, almost pleading for her to get closer to him, confide every bit of her being.

"You're sweet," smiles Buffy, before double-taking. "And... and boorish... and evil... and totally stuck in the 70s when it comes to fashion."

Spike smirks and chuckles. "Got me labeled to a T. God, woman, I love you."

Buffy stops walking, blushing. He's never called her '_woman_' before, quite like that. It's... possessive, but nice, and it reminds her of what dream-Spike said, the two halves of her coin: Slayer-Buffy and normal-girl-Buffy, sharing herself equally with the vampire she's side-hugging. In fact, isn't that what she's doing right this very moment, the double-sharing? She's been staking vampires with him while complaining about her horrid class and her domestic troubles, though to be honest the later are more aligned with her Slayer side.

"You feelin' a'right, pet? Eyes just got all far-away lookin'. You still here with me?"

"I'm good. Just thinking about... a dream I had."

"Slayer vision an' what-not?"

"No... a regular person dream... can vampires really dream, Spike?"

"Can't say for sure it's a species-wide experience, but I do." _Dream about you, pet, can't much help myself after seein' you in that red number few days ago... dream of holdin' you, pressin' you against me..._

"Bet I can guess what _you_ dream about," Buffy smiles. _If it's the same kind of dream as mine..._

Until this week, she'd only ever had one dream about Spike – of sitting beside him at the hospital, the gentle rub he'd given her neck – and had woken up to find the real Spike concerned and agitated in her room, ready to break the news of Riley's betrayal. But that first one was innocuous compared to the recent nightly thrills, impressing herself with the naughtiness she had no clue she was capable of. She'd avoided slaying in Restfield for that reason, afraid evidence of her mind's suggestions would somehow be revealed in Spike's company.

"Oi! Why're you smirkin' at me?" he demands, confused and a little miffed.

Buffy can't help it. Pondering what dream-Spike does to her is just too much fun... and way too hot, especially for post-slaying contemplation.

"Uh... I, um, should probably get going, see if Giles has heard anything from the League of Extraordinary Gits."

"Oh. Right. Course, you should."

Noting the dejected tone of his voice, she slips her arm out from around him and faces him, feigning timidity.

"Do you... do you want your goodnight kiss now?"

His disappointment evaporating instantly, Spike gapes, blue eyes popping. _She's OFFERING? Got to be a dream... must've passed out again. Come to think of it, probably got a worse electric shock from that stupid cable than I thought, fried my noggin into mush_...

"Spike?" says Buffy, puzzled. "You look kinda... like someone pushed the 'pause' button."

"Just... never thought you'd ask me that, luv. Didn't think you remembered."

"You underestimate how a good a kisser you are, then. Now forget I said that, before it goes to your head."

Refusing him any chance to turn her down – a ludicrous implausibility anyway – Buffy threads her arms around Spike's neck and ensnares his lips, drawing his taste into her, all copper and menthol and spirits and leather. He keeps his hands firm at her waist, afraid of where they might explore if left to wander. Hers move unbidden through his white-blond hair, down the back of his neck, and across the width of his shoulders, slim but just as powerful as the burly types she's more accustomed to.

"I'm not a statue, silly," she smirks into his lips, trying to draw herself against him. "Hold me..."

"Buffy," Spike groans, his jeans so tight it aches. Fearing she'll spring out of his arms as soon as she feels how aroused he is, he pulls her closer, one arm slipping up to her shoulders, the other lower around her hips.

She tenses up for a half second, then softens, molding herself to him, her mind wrapping itself around three hitherto unappreciated facts: Spike dresses left... and goes commando... and is _very_ well-endowed... _whoa_... Had he reacted as strongly the two times in her kitchen when they'd almost gotten carried away?

_Shesh, self-absorbed much, how could you have missed a hard-on like _that_ during all the straddling and grinding?_ a peeved inner voice chastises her.

"Comparin', luv?" Spike whispers, grinning as his lips caress the cleft between her jawbone and her ear.

"No-mmm-not," she protests, her words slurring as his mouth returns to hers and kisses deeply. "I'm... enjoying."

_Enjoyin'? Enjoyin' me... not as the distraction to all her worldly and other-worldly woes, just me... Spike and Buffy... Buffy and William... the poncy poet with the vampire upgrade and the Slayer... My God. Hell has frozen over, and Heaven has come to earth._

She feels the shift in his caresses, the desperation and hesitancy fading away completely, replaced by unbridled bliss. Her large cross pendant sizzles against his t-shirt, but he ignores it, entirely focused on Buffy – her lips, her hair, his arms threading inside her coat to squeeze her back. Neither of them have any desire to stop, and their lip-lock is getting more and more vocal, soft gasps and heady groans.

"Do you... want to come back... to my place?" he murmurs, realizing how unguarded and foolhardy his suggestion is the moment it leaks from his lips. Buffy inhales, and he can already tell a refusal is coming next.

"Spike, I... I want... minions!"

"You want _what_?"

"Minions! Glory's goons! Look!"

He turns around to spot two scabby, gray, pygmy demons in burlap robes, watching them inquisitively from a sheltering patch of shrubs. As soon as Buffy calls them out, they burst into shrieks of terror and flee for the closest street.

"Hey! Come back here, you little pervs!" she shouts, shoving herself free of Spike's arms and rushing to pursue. Spike remains, unsure if he's welcomed to join her until she glances back over her shoulder. "What? Let's get 'em!"

Together they break into runs, bolting around the hedge and down an alley, but by the time they reach the main thoroughfare, a horde of happy movie-goers are emerging from the theater, and the two skin-diseased flunkies are nowhere in sight.

"Of all the nerve," she huffs at the populated street between the Magic Box and the Espresso Pump. "What's Glory up to, trying to impugn my honor by sending out the midget-y peeping toms? Buffy the Vampire Smoocher?"

Spike chortles. "Maggoty blighters. Say... look, luv, lights are on in Scooby headquarters," he notices, gesturing at the shop. "Rupert's burnin' the midnight oil. Shall we go tell 'im about the canvas-clad moles, eh?"

"As long as we don't tell him what they caught us doing," Buffy smirks at Spike. She starts to walk toward the shop, and he saunters behind her to wrap one arm possessively around her waist.

"So... we shouldn't walk in like this, then," he whispers, burying his face in her warm golden tresses, lips tracing down her neck.

"Spi-i-i-ike..." She murmurs his name in a long, throaty breath. "Be good..."

"Must I?" he entreats, reluctantly loosening his hold and brushing one hand through her hair, arranging the silky strands back into place so that no one would be the wiser. "I like being bad..."

"Be good for now," she smiles, reaching for the Magic Box's front door.

"Tease."

"Sap," she retorts, smirking.

"Vixen."

"Slayer-phile," she answers, barely reining in giggles as she turns the handle.

"I-I think you'll see that your review isn't strictly needed..." says Giles's voice nervously. A customer, still here so late?

Buffy takes one look into the shop, sees way too much tweed, and starts to back out into a very confused Spike.

"Bad day... bad baaaad..."

"Miss Summers?" says Quinton Travers coolly, and Buffy freezes, halfway out of the door, "good to see you again."

"Must be gettin' you confused with another Miss Summers livin' in Sunnydale who happens to be the Slayer," Spike attempts to joke, his voice low in her ear. "That or his memory's failin' in his senile years."

Buffy snorts and then quickly composes herself, while Travers and his suit-clad colleagues look on, their faces ranging from unreadable to impatient to calculating. Reluctantly, Buffy reopens the door and steps into the shop, and Spike closes it as he crosses the threshold.

"Behind her! Vampire!"

Three armed crossbows appear as if by magic. Buffy shields Spike, arms up, waving their weapons down, her back to his chest, his back to the door.

"No! Spike is..." _My ally? My friend? The soulless creature whose sinisterly attractive, cold, and muscular body is the subject of my increasingly-less-secret fantasies?_

"He's harmless," she finally says, rather lamely.

Spike opens his mouth to protest, but then all his focusing ability vanishes as Buffy presses slightly closer to him, the curve of her backside against the front of his jeans. _Oh bugger... she's gonna make me get it up in front of Tweedy and Co... Don't... Ohhhh... Oh soddin' hell, baby, don't move..._

Buffy draws in a surprised breath as she feels the reaction he can't suppress. Travers says something, but Buffy's mind is far too pleasantly occupied. Feeling daring, she pushes back infinitesimally more, and hears his repressed intake of breath, sees his hand tighten on the doorknob out of the corner of her eye. _I'm grinding my ass into William the Bloody in front of the leading members of the Watcher's Council... and dang, it is hot!_

Completely oblivious to the paralysis between the Slayer and the aroused vampire she's defending, Travers hands the floor to another Watcher he introduces as Nigel, an Indian man, mid-forties, conspicuously self-important.

"It's an exhaustive examination of your procedures and abilities," says Nigel stiffly. "We'll observe your training, talk to your friends..."

"Talk to my friends?" Buffy interrupts, finally releasing the pressure on Spike and hearing him give an almost inaudible sigh of relief.

"Yes," Travers nods, "we understand you're still taking civilians out on patrol."

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," Buffy huffs.

"Buffy, I sense your resistance, and I –"

"Oh, quit with the Darth Vader act," Spike huffs, folding his arms – and, conveniently, his coat flaps – across his body. "Can't scare this girl into gettin' whatever the hell it is that you tweedy birds want. 'Nless you have her poisoned again, like the scum-sucking rat you are..."

"Spike," Buffy murmurs in warning as two of the watchers heft their crossbows skittishly.

Travers just _humphs_ loudly and keeps his eyes fixed on Buffy, ignoring Spike's interruption. "I think your Watcher hasn't reminded you lately of the resolute status of the players in our little game. The Council fights evil. The Slayer is the instrument by which we fight. The Council remains, the Slayers change. It's been that way from the beginning."

"Well, that's a very comforting, bloodless way of looking at it isn't it?" Giles asks with scorn.

"Giles, let me talk to Buffy, because I think she's understanding me."

Buffy also crosses her arms, sending Travers a sneer as he prattles on.

"Glory is stronger than you. We can help you. We have information that will help. Pass the review, and we will give it to you without reservation. Fail the review, either through incompetence, or by resisting our recommendations –"

Giles and Spike burst out with arguments at exactly the same second.

"Resisting your recommendations? She fails if we don't do what you say! How much under your thumb do you think we are?"

"She's not your bloody instrument, you pillock! Oh, go ahead," Spike growls as the subservient Watchers lift their crossbows again. "Take your best shot! I'll snatch your little sticks out of the air and spend the next fortnight shovin' 'em slowly up your arse!"

A visible tremor of terror runs through every tweed-wearing person in the shop. Giles looks like he might burst into laughter, while Travers' face is slightly green.

"I... understand you think this is... unfair," the head of the Council finally resumes speaking, his tone missing much of its former intimidation. "But there are factors which should motivate you to go along with the review. We could shut this place down permanently."

"You can't do that," says Buffy, her eyes flicking around the shop once before zeroing in on Travers again. "You don't have that kind of power." _Does he?_

"Of course we do, and a great deal more. In fact, if you insist on fighting us, we'll arrange to have Mr. Giles deported within the day, never set foot in this country again."

Spike looks momentarily to Giles, hoping something in the familiar Watcher's eyes will call Travers' bluff, but Rupert just continues staring stonily at the human who has brought as much harm to his charge as almost any demon.

"Now, perhaps you're used to idle threats and sloppy discipline, Miss Summers. But you're dealing with grownups now," Travers concludes pretentiously. "Am I making myself clear?"

Buffy continues glaring, afraid if she looks at Spike or Giles she'll lose her resolve.

"I... I assume Giles has shown you the Training Room?" she asks, voice stiff.

"Yes."

"Good. Will you and your people wait there while I speak with Giles and Spike?"

"With the vampire?" queries a bespectacled female watcher who looks like she invented the word 'bookish'.

"Let her have her way, Lydia, temporarily," says Travers, standing up. The Watchers file into the back room, still training their crossbows on a sneering Spike until they're all within and the door closes. Buffy sinks into the bench around the back-lit table, and Spike lights up a cigarette and paces over near where Giles is standing, looking defeated.

"It's a power play, that's what it is," the older-looking Englishman sighs. "It's about who has the power."

"Big power outage in Buffy County," the Slayer says glumly.

"I should have set the two of you loose on them, that's what I should have done."

Spike grins and draws on his smoke, while Buffy just exhales miserably again. "Giles, that Travers guy is like sixty. I can't hit him." She looks up, seeking encouragement. "Can I?"

"_I_ could... if I _could_, you know" Spike grumbles. "Buggerin' chip."

"Can you really do that?" Giles inquires of Spike. "What you implied?"

"The arrow thing? I don't know," he shrugs. "Never tried. Threat always seems to get good results, though."

"Can they really do the stuff they threatened? Kick you out of the country?" Buffy whispers.

"In a heartbeat," sighs Giles, removing his glasses and extracting a kerchief. "Bureaucracy, pulling of political strings, they're the best in the world. They can kill you with the stroke of a pen. Poncy sods."

_Crunch_. A lens snaps free, polished right out of the frame. Giles eyes his broken glasses and then sets them down on the table, sitting beside Buffy.

"Giles... am I gonna be able to get through this review?" Buffy asks softly, fear laced through her voice.

"I suppose they'll make it as difficult as they want to. The physical stuff could be a bit of a challenge."

"That's not what I'm worried about. It's the other stuff. Examining decisions I've made. They're gonna expect me to... to be like a Slayer, and... and know stuff, but I'm just me and I don't know anything, and they're gonna go away, and they're not gonna tell me how to fight Glory, and I'm not gonna be able to protect Dawn..."

"Buffy, calm down. The scandal here is not anything you've done wrong, it's the way they're behaving. Holding what they know hostage... with a gun pointed at my bleeding green card, no less. It's humiliating."

"Don't worry, Gramps," Spike says cheerily, stomping out the butt of his cigarette. "They won't send you back to the Isle unwillingly 'nless it's over my dead but still-kicking body."

"They did pick the perfect thing," Buffy heaves another sigh and squeezes Giles's hand. "I can't lose you."

"Thank you."

"I... I guess I should be getting ready." She stands and reaches for her coat. "Spike, a word."

"Of course, luv."

He follows her through the door beside the counter, past the basement door, and into the alley. For almost an entire minute, they stand together, not touching, just lingering, glad to finally be alone to clear their heads.

"Sorry 'bout... goin' stiff on you," he murmurs, chagrinned.

Buffy's eyes flick down to his belt, and then back up guiltily – but her womanly pride is too swelled up to feel truly embarrassed.

"Oh... that... I didn't mind," she says when he continues staring at her as though waiting for an angry backlash. His eyes widen. _Uh-oh, brain-to-mouth filter disengaged. Prepare for Stage Two: foot-in-mouth syndrome._ "That really didn't come out right."

Spike's concerned look morphs into a grin. "Want to try it again, see how you _really_ feel?"

"Spike!"

"Kiddin', sweets. Sort-of..." He shakes his head as if to regain focus. "So... I'm _harmless_, am I?"

Buffy sucks in her lower lip, realizing how much her careless label hurt him.

"I... I couldn't think of anything appropriate to say."

"Appropriate?"

"Yeah, I mean, I didn't think blurting out _'Hi Watcher people. This is Spike, also known as William the Bloody, slayer of Slayers. He's been living in my house after getting thrashed by my demon-hating ex-boyfriend, who thought that he and I were having sweaty, naked, crazy-good sex'_ would make a really good impression. And I definitely just channeled my inner Anya, didn't I?"

"You're the new poster girl for 'Too Much Information', pet," he agrees with a smirk. "Though... I'd love to hear about this sweaty... naked... crazy-good sex we supposedly had."

Buffy's face turns flamboyantly pink, noticing how he stretches out the words, making them sound far dirtier and more alluring than she had.

"Pig," she mutters instinctively.

"Oink," whispers Spike, mouth set in a cheeky grin. "Still, I'm better than that odious tweedy bastard who tried to murder you on your eighteenth, aren't I?"

"Totally."

"If he or his minions do anything to hurt you or Dawnie, I'll lop off their heads and string their intestines all over town."

"Ewww," Buffy grimaces, resisting a laugh. "Head-lopping and intestine-stringing are _not_ okay, and besides, your chip would headache you into next year."_ How does he always manage to make everything seem... well, maybe not 'all right with the world', but at least... less overwhelming and doom-causing, like the bad guys really do have weaknesses?_

"Yeah, well, I'd fight them off bitin' and scratchin' until I blacked out, sod the pain," he mutters. " 'Course they'd probably dust me first, outnumbered an' all."

"No dusting!" Buffy whispers hoarsely, unable to stop the sudden surge of panic that floods her system. "You... you're not allowed to get dusted! Y-you have to stay un-dusted."

"Buffy..." Spike gapes, watching her lips tremble, eyes fill with water. "Luv, I didn't – "

"You can't leave me! I n-n-need you. I c-c-can't beat Glory, and if you l-l-leave, and s-s-something happens to m-m-me, then there'll be n-n-no one to protect D-D-D-Dawn!"

"Buffy, sweetheart..."

He pulls her into an embrace, squeezing her shoulders tightly, her hands on his chest. A neighboring shopkeeper pokes his head out the back door of his establishment, but Spike sneers and gives him the two-finger salute, and the man scuttles back out of sight.

"Shh... It's alright, my love... dearest love... a'course I'll never leave."

"Men always leave me. Dad. Angel. Stupid boys."

Spike smiles into her hair, pleasantly surprised that she lumps Soldier Boy in with that ass Parker, and any of the brats she might have dated in high school.

"Well, I'm not a man, livin' one that is. I'll be by your side 'till you decide to be rid of me. Pro'ly not even then. I'll come back as a ghost and haunt you."

Giving a weepy chuckle, Buffy runs a hand down the lapel of his duster, feeling the familiar leather. "No dusting. Ever."

"Only one unstoppable force in this world could ever take me out, and that's you, honey."

"Then you're gonna live to be one crotchety old vampire," Buffy whispers with a teary smile. On a whim, she tilts her head and kisses him on the neck. A shudder of longing courses through Spike's cold veins.

"Not if you do _that_. I'll combust inside-out," he says shakily, matching her movement by pressing his lips to her hair.

"We... we have to be good... until they go."

"As in, no more cold cuddlin' until McTweedy and his hired help hit the proverbial road?"

"Uh-huh."

"And then?" he urges longingly. He feels her smile against his neck.

"Then maybe I _will_ come to your place sometime."

"You've _got_ to stop doin' that, luv. Teasin' me, makin' promises."

"Then promise me something." She pulls away and meets his gaze. "Promise you won't provoke them... if they come do their twenty questions thing. Just tell them whatever they want to hear and don't give them any reason to hurt you. I'd feel so awful if you got hurt again because of me."

"Hey now," Spike leans forward slightly, his voice a reassuring whisper. "Haven't ever been hurt because of you, sweets."

"Riley..."

"...Was a spoilsported son-of-a-bitch who got what was comin' to him..."

"Promise me, Spike."

He heaves his shoulders, bristling that she still blames herself for the tortures he experienced at her dead ex's hands.

"I promise not to be cheeky to the trigger-happy tweedy morons," he says, whingeing a bit before the corner of his mouth turns up into a smirk. "Kiss on it then, Slayer?"

"No cheek," Buffy warns.

"Just lips this time," he winks, closing in before she has time to rebuff him. One hand swooping around her mid-back, he tips her into a low dip and takes her mouth prisoner, but with a gentleness that surprises her. She clings to his duster lapels, half afraid of falling over backwards. After a long, languid kiss, he straightens, lifting her up beside him.

"You know where to find me," he murmurs, sealing her forehead with another kiss. "Hang on... just 'membered somethin'. Got a pen on you, luv?"

"What?"

"Pen. Ballpoint... fountain? Or a pencil?"

"Uh... yeah, from school..."

She fishes in her coat pocket and hands him a No. 2 pencil. Spike snatches up a scrap of newspaper from the alley cobbles and scribbles seven numbers on it before shoving the paper bit at her.

"What's this?" Buffy asks, completely at a loss.

"Phone number for my crypt," answers Spike. He'd triple-checked the city maps and records to make absolutely sure the number from the damaged street payphone corresponded to the wires he'd decoupled.

"_You_ have a –"

"Complicated," he huffs. "There was minor vandalism involved. Thought you might not like it."

"No... I feel safer knowing I could get in touch with you faster."

"Music to my ears, luv. Well... guess you'd better go back inside before they s'pect I've eaten you."

* * *

_To be continued..._


	16. Chapter 16: Protector

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for every single review! =) Feedback is always appreciated! Say, has anybody else ever noticed that in the scene where the Watchers first show up, Travers leans on the glass counter right over the sign that says "Do Not Lean On"? Haha! Evil git!

I've been nominated in the _Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards_, round 28! Voting continues until June 30, 2013. Thanks ever so!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts "Checkpoint", including both direct and altered quotes (shooting script and transcript). Also quotes from "Intervention", "Blood Ties", "Graduation Day Part 1", "Lover's Walk", and **Angel**: "A Hole in the World".

Writing passive-aggressive sassy Spike was such a delight. I went a little overboard with the British slang dictionary. Hope you all enjoy! This is a long chapter. Minor warning: The second scene goes from mildly amusing to very dark/angsty very quickly. Just thought I'd give a heads-up.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike installs a phone in his crypt and realizes his sleep and eating patterns are wonky. Buffy and Spike are spotted smooching by two of Glory's leprous hobbits. The Evil League of Evil, er, I mean the Watchers Council, show up in Sunnydale and threaten to deport Giles. Spike promises Buffy that he'll try not to bad-mouth them, at least not to their faces._

* * *

Chapter 16: Protector

Two out-of-breath, thoroughly frightened, and slightly beat-up monk demons scurry into Glory's lavish apartment and promptly fall to their knees in front of their mistress's futon.

"There you are!" she grins girlishly, applying the final swipe of black polish to one of her fingernails. "I was starting to wonder where you boys were. Hey, what's the deal with your face?"

"It's a... _cough cough_... message from Ben," Jinx gasps, "he... he isn't going to help."

"Isn't... isn't going to help?" she repeats petulantly, adjusting her curls. "But all he has to do is turn over that tiny squirming Slayer girl!"

"We were also... _pant_... engaged on the sacred mission you so honorably... _pant pant_... bestowed upon us, oh sweet-smelling and... _wheeze_... stylish one," Jinx continues.

"Yes, oh most glamorous lusciousness," rasps Murk, "we faithfully... _cough_... spied upon the Slayer."

"Did you figure out where that little floozy is keeping my key?" demands Glory eagerly. "'Cuz I'm really getting tired of this second-rate town in this second-rate dimension with only clods and numbnuts to brainsuck."

The demon underlings look at each other nervously.

"It... it seems she... she found a certain vampire... attractive," Jinx tries to explain, the pauses in his statement due to hesitancy, as well as hyperventilation.

"And we saw her... making overt advances..."

"Kissing him, to be exact."

"There was tongue," Murk adds with wide eyes.

"Much tongue, your scrumptiousness."

"Really?" Glory asks, squinting. "Slutty the key thief was smooching it up with a _vampire_?"

"Indeed, your malicious magnificence," Jinx nods.

"That's... weird." Glory frowns. "Why would little miss anti-vampire get all mouthy with one?"

Another tentative look passes between the brown-robed brown-nosers.

"Perhaps... he is... the key!" they exclaim in union.

"Really?" Glory says with an eager smile. "That's fantabulous! And impossible," she pouts, all enthusiasm vanishing. "A vampire can't be the key, because... see, the key has to be pure. Lesson number one, vampires equal impure."

The two minions sigh glumly, expecting punishment from their almighty mistress.

"Although," she says, her voice slightly less sullen, "I heard about this vamp guy, down in LA... now _that_ would be a fun place to crash, _way_ better malls than Middle-of-nowhere-dale... who's apparently the big kahuna 'cuz he's got a soul. Maybe the Slayer's undead little boy-toy is one of those soulish types and got all purified. I know!" she giggles, almost cackling. "I'll just find her myself!"

"Yes! Excellent plan, oh brilliance!" Jinx kowtows.

"Your genius is as awe-inspiring as your gloriousness!" adds Murk.

"Aww! My sweet little lumpy minions!" Glory beams. "Now go get me a mimosa! Now!"

* * *

_Of course they would send the simperin', scholarly spinster to conduct their little "Interview with a Vampire",_ Spike growls to himself as his crypt door bursts open in the middle of the afternoon the next day and the female Watcher named Lydia – flanked by a cross-bearer and a crossbow-bearer – invades his space. After spending a few more hours straightening the downstairs and getting not so much as a whiff of news, he's just climbed the ladder for a drink and a spot of telly when the unwelcomed visitors arrive.

"Come in. Door's unlocked," he says in a surly tone, lingering in the back until the door swings shut to hide the sun. _Shame the whole 'invite' business doesn't work in reverse._ "Anythin' I can do for you..." _No mouthin'-off... promised Buffy..._ "you... Watchers."

"We're here to discuss your relationship with the Slayer," announces Lydia, clipboard at the ready.

_None of your tweedy business, hussy. If we _have_ a relationship, you'll be the last to know_.

"What about me an' Buffy?" he asks, leaning strategically against one of the biers several feet away from the paranoid Council entourage. If their trigger-fingers get jumpy, all he has to do is shift his hips to duck out of the line of fire.

"First things first." She adjusts her glasses and focuses on her clipboard. "You are William the Bloody, but prefer 'Spike'? Spelled S-P-I-K-E?"

_Need me to _spell_ it? I'll spell it for you, you shrew. B-I-T-E M-E_...

"Yeah," he drawls, pulling a cigarette packet and his lighter from his back pocket, and grinning as the two Watcher bodyguards' eyes widen in a momentary increase of fear.

"Excellent. Now we can get to the questions," says Lydia prissily. "You are a vampire?"

_Are _all_ the questions gonna be like this? You think I live in a crypt just 'cuz I like the smell of dirt? Bloody hell, are you as stupid as those hideous high-waisted pants you're wearin'? What color is that 'xactly, burnt vomit?_

"If I'm not, I'm gonna be pissed about drinkin' all that blood," he replies with a curt shrug. _Oops, couldn't keep a lid on it that time... but that didn't count as sassin' 'em, right? Just... tryin' to cheer 'em up a bit is all, like anythin' could make these dotty stiffs relax. Smilin' muscles must have atrophied from lack of use..._

Not even a smidgen of a pleasant expression shows on any of the Watchers' tense faces. Lydia _ahem_s and proceeds to her next inquiry.

"But you can't hurt anyone?"

"Another one for the lady," he mutters, drawing on his smoke.

"There's a chip in your head that keeps you from hurting people?"

_No, you daft bint. It's my love for Buffy that stops me from... well, I guess if you want to be _technical_ about it_...

"That's right. Keeps me nice an' harmless. Doesn't stop me from wantin' to, though."

All three of the humans flinch, and Lydia withdraws a considerable step back, fumbling with the collar of her turtleneck. Amused at their easy misinterpretation, Spike goads their fear even further with a wolfish smile, human incisors showing.

"The chip takes away the... ability," Lydia soldiers on, "but it leaves... leaves the..."

"Desire?" Spike fills in her implied blank. He puts on his charmer voice, low, sweet, and deadly. "Yeah, I've got tons of that." _Just chock-full of desire. If it weren't for this chip an' Buffy's say-so, you'd be lying there on the floor with more blood out'a your body than in't. Put that in your pipe an' smoke it!_

"Um..." Lydia shuffles her papers on her clipboard, and the arms holding the crucifix and crossbow straighten threateningly. "We understand that you _help_ the Slayer."

"I pitch in when she wants me," he shrugs. "Er, not that she needs my help, or anythin' like that." _Bugger. Do they think Buffy's not up to caliber, has to recruit 'harmless' vampires to fight her battles for her? Think she's slippin'? Loathsome little pillocks half-way around the world think they know better how she ought to face the demons she battles every day?_

"So, you fight alongside her against other demons? How often do you provide such assistance?"

"Uh... two, maybe three nights a week. Half the time I just go off on my own, y'know? Brawl around in the demon bars. I mean... gotta get my rocks off somehow, eh?"

None of them look sympathetic, so he just leers and inhales another drag, curling his lip.

"How long exactly have you been assisting the Slayer?"

_How long 'xactly are you uptight, self-important pansies going to be here yankin' on Buffy like you've got some kind of a leash on her?_

"Must be a year, year an' a half," is all he says aloud, teasingly vague.

"And you have not consumed human blood since then?"

"Not straight from the tap. A few demon joints 'round town sell the stuff, and there's always the donated blood at the hospital, the stuff that's about to go stale. Never tastes as good as when it's fresh, though."

He sneers at them and unmistakably licks his teeth. Sweat is beading up on the two male Watchers' faces.

"There's blood there," whispers the one holding the cross. Switching the protective emblem into his other hand, he points at the streaks from beside the fridge to the stone slab – which thankfully Spike had pulled shut prior to their arrival, giving no indication of the level beneath. While the crossbow-armed Watcher stays trained on Spike, Lydia and her other companion glance around at all the dark bloodstains around the crypt.

"Oh, right," mutters Spike. He hasn't had time to clean the upper level yet. "It's mine."

"Your blood?" asks Lydia skeptically, her eyes sweeping the multitudinous splatters. "From your body, you mean?"

"Yeah, long story. Tussle with a jealous bloke, no need to bore you lot with the details."

"Jealous? Of you? Jealous of what?"

_Oh, wouldn't you little pricks like to know. Yeah, Buffy's beau thought I was puttin' it to her!_

"Don't see how that's got to do with the reason you people are here," he grumbles sourly, puffing on his cigarette. "Nearly done with your interrogation, eh?"

Lydia looks at the contents of her clipboard, turns a bit pink, and folds the papers against her chest. "I have... some personal inquiries."

Both of the human men suddenly squint at their superior, and Spike cocks an eyebrow.

"Do you now?" he almost laughs, conflicted between feeling insulted and amused. _Good grief! Is the tweedy tart comin' onto me?!_ "Don't think that'd be alright with the Council bigwigs. Thought this tête-à-tête was strictly Slayer-related."

"I'm... merely curious as to why you don't seem to want to kill her. You've killed Slayers before. Xin Rong in 1900, and Nikki Wood in 1977."

"Heard of me, have you?" he grins, slightly intrigued by her unexpected coquettish attitude. The two male Watchers shift nervously as he takes a single step toward them, his shoulders rolling in their characteristic predatory manner. Lydia is beet red, eyelashes fluttering.

"I... I w-wrote my thesis on you."

For two seconds he thinks it's a joke... then remembers that these obnoxious, high-strung Watcher types wouldn't know what to do with a joke if they got one for Christmas. The chuckle starts in his nose and spreads to his throat and lungs, and before he can stop himself he's doubled over howling in merriment. All three of the Watchers stand silently observing him, as though they haven't seen laughter in such a long time and can't understand how or why Spike's vocal chords are making that sound.

"Well," he says eventually, continuing to snicker. "Well... that's... that's neat." Barely containing another cacophonous burst of laughs, he sidles slightly closer, biting his lower lip sexily. "That's real sweet. I'm touched, really. So... tell me then, pet, now we're such good friends... how's the Slayer doing? She okay? High marks in all categories?"

"That's classified," Lydia bursts out, still flaming red.

"Classified," Spike scoffs, his smile immediately replaced by an angry glare now that he knows flattery won't earn him anything to make Buffy better informed. "Right. Toddle off, then. I don't give autographs, an' I don't sleep with groupies, in case you were wonderin'."

Lydia's face turns an unnatural shade of purple, and she immediately flees from the crypt. The two bodyguards maintain their defensive stances until they're at the door, much too far away for Spike to be intimidated by the cross's holy range or by confidence in the Watcher's crossbow-bolt aim.

"We may be in touch, if the Council determines your actions are a threat to the Slayer," says the one with the cross, turning up his nose at Spike.

"Don't do me any favors," the vampire growls, flicking his cigarette butt in their general direction. The moment the door closes behind them, he starts roaring, finally giving vent to his pent-up irritation. "What, done with the Inquisition already? No questions back, eh? Did you trolls know tweed makes you look fat? An' what's your favorite color? What's your favorite song? Who's the goalkeeper for Manchester United? An' how many _fingers_ am I holdin' up?!"

He gestures a V at the door with his index and forefinger, then curls his hand into an empty fist and pantomimes punching, wanting nothing better than to stove their heads in. He's sickened with himself, having to scrape and bow and answer their stupid bleedin' questions like he's an impotent lackey, another pawn in their chess-match with Buffy.

If he hadn't made that promise, hadn't tried his hardest to keep his tongue and his anger in check... oh the fun he could have had...

_"That's classified."_

_"Classified, eh? Why don't you classify _THIS_?!"_

_Game-face on, he'd lunge, bat the crossbow and crucifix from their hands before they could blink – just rough enough to scare the living daylights out of them without actually causing pain – and then rip the asinine clipboard from Lydia's manicured fingers and smash it over his knee. The two weaponless men would flee, leaving their commanding officer at his mercy._

_"The chip!" she would squeal, tears of terror in her eyes._

_"Guess I bluffed, didn't I?" he'd snarl, licking his fangs. "Pretty easy to fool you all, really. Fake some headaches, everyone gets used to poor helpless Spike. Then... one day... no warning... I snap spines, bend heads back, drain 'em all dry. Brilliant."_

_"Please! Please don't hurt me!"_

_She'd fall on her back, trying to scramble away from him as he stalked ever nearer, mouth watering with bloodlust._

_"Why so frightened, sweet pea?" he'd croon. "Thought you wanted a little taste of my darkness. Isn't that how you devotee freaks usually like it? Play hard-to-get, think you're the one in control, when what you want most is to get in my bed and let me hurt you!"_

_"No! No please!"_

_"Tell me everythin' you know about Glory! Now!"_

_He'd pin her down on the floor – hands on her tweed sport-jacket so he isn't actually touching her._

_"I don't know!" she'd probably sob. "Travers won't tell us! He thinks Giles or those little witches could trick us into giving it away! Please don't hurt me!"_

_"Pity... pity for you, that is. I'll get to Travers tonight, but I don't mind havin' a snack first..."_

_"Please don't! Help! Somebody help me!"_

_And then_... then what? _"Just kiddin', I'm really harmless. Now get your homely, tweedy ass out of my crypt"?_ _Bloody anti-climactic..._

His inner demon is purring just from contemplating scaring the yellow-bellied Watchers into trembling wusses, but his incensed mood isn't mollified in the slightest. Remembering why he'd come upstairs in the first place, Spike stalks over to the fridge, yanks it open, seizes a jar, and swigs a mouthful of cold blood. As he swallows, he stares at the container with a frown. How had he managed to slug this stuff down yesterday night? It's even more noxious than the pig's blood normally tastes, probably stale, been sitting in his fridge since...

A vinegar-like aftertaste suddenly washes through his throat, and Spike drops the glass and bends over, coughing violently, spewing the putrid stuff down his shirt and the door of the fridge.

"God, that's foul," he gags, wiping his mouth on his arm. The last time he'd been to the butcher's was six days ago, the evening before he'd moved out of Buffy's house. The stuff is rancid to the core.

Then the smell hits him full-blast... a pungent reek, like sulfur and gasoline, drenching the inside of his mouth. He turns away and dry-heaves over the side of the bier, his stomach too empty to bring anything back up. Shaking, he fumbles in his dwindling cache of alcohol and pours himself a shot glass of Vodka, gulping it down almost as soon as he's filled it to the brim. One shot is nowhere near enough to burn away the taste, so he tips back the bottle and chugs, swallowing once... twice... letting it overflow his mouth and scorch the insides of his nose.

When his gut starts to feel charred, he sets the half-empty bottle down on the stone sarcophagus and snorts some of the liquor out of his sterilized nostrils, but with one breath the bitter odor fills up his innards again. Feeling tainted and dizzy, he strips his shirt off as he strides over to the slab, pries it open, and hops down the ladder. He flings the soiled shirt into a back corner, then heads for the shower, tugging at his boots. Socks, belt, and jeans follow suit, and Spike flicks on the water and immediately steps under the spray.

The temperature is icy enough to throw goose-bumps over even _his_ naturally cool skin. He shakes his head under the fountain, running a hand through his hair as the frigid water saturates it. Rinsing his mouth in the downpour finally provides some relief, then he scrubs the blood off his arm and chin and watches the sullied water drip down his lean body and form a pink puddle around the drain.

_Dying was easier than this_, he muses, gazing down at his feet until the surrounding water runs clear. _This humiliation... this fear..._

He _is_ afraid... suspecting that these blind idiots will find some nitpicky fault with Buffy's means or methods, then send Giles away – which will devastate her – and not give her the information they're withholding, what she needs to know to protect little Dawnie...

If only he didn't have the chip... if only he was free. He could carve through them all, drain their conceited throats dry... one by one by one... until Travers caved to his demands... or, even better, until he clawed the secrets out of the Council leader's bleeding skull...

And then Buffy would see the ruby evidence on his hands and his lips... and it wouldn't matter that it was for her and Dawn and Giles, that he'd killed the man who'd done nothing but bring her torment on the two occasions when the bastard had intruded into her life. No... she'd see it as murder, the taking of a human life, proof that – deep down – he _is_ just a monster.

He's trapped... trapped in his skin, in his tangled mind... in his consuming love.

Naked and helpless, Spike sinks to his knees, bends forward until his head and hands touch stone – like a parishioner kneeing at the altar, _Forgive me, for I have sinned..._ – and lets the cold water flow down over his bare back, wishing it could truly wash him clean.

* * *

When both the headache from crying and his hangover finally dwindle, Spike turns off the water, still crouched on his haunches in the tiny alcove of the shower. Bleary-eyed, he gingerly stands and reaches for his black jeans, pulling them on though his cramped legs aren't fully dry. He finds a clean t-shirt from his half-unpacked duffel, slicks gel through his damp hair, and slowly walks back upstairs, his stomach still trying to claw its way back up his throat.

It's around sunset, but after being awake for nearly seventy-two hours straight, his body clock doesn't much care what time creatures of the night are supposed to be up and about. Deciding to clean the mess off the floor and the fridge later, Spike keels over the bier in the farthest corner from the door and tugs a dirt-stained blanket over himself, the earthy musk a welcomed relief from the other scent in the room. Almost immediately, he's asleep.

Then his door creaks open, and a blinding light pierces into his face.

"Aahh!"

He kicks the musty blanket and lurches up off the sarcophagus, raising fists at the ready, before realizing that the trespasser is Buffy, holding a flashlight.

"Oh," he sighs, sleepily rubbing one eye as she quickly approaches him. "It's you. For a second there I was worried, thought maybe Tweedy-dee and Tweedy-dumb had come back with their stakes and pitchforks. Wait..." he looks eagerly into her face. "You're _here_... are they gone? You passed?"

"No," she murmurs gloomily, "the Council cretins are still here."

"Shame."

"They came here already? They talked to you?"

"Yeah, barged in with their flailin' crossbows an' clipboards an' mothball-scented suits. And... I'll be honest with you, luv. I did mouth off, but only a bit... okay, a lot... but they deserved it!"

"At least you didn't throw an axe into a dummy," Buffy huffs.

"You _axed_ one of 'em?" Spike says in astonishment, chortling. "Good on you, luv. 'Bout time!"

"No! The scarecrow dummy in the training room. I was supposed to defend... nevermind. I need your help."

Spike smiles, fighting off his exhaustion. He wonders if he'll ever get used to hearing her say things like that... that she actually _needs_ him, actually _wants_ him, even if it's not to the degree he hopes it might someday be.

"Anything, Buffy."

"It's... kinda a big favor."

"I can do _favors_," he smirks, stepping close to her, fingers of his right hand slipping around her waist. "I'm _really_ good at those."

"Spike," she says sharply, a warning. Confused, he glances past her and for the first time notices Dawn and Joyce, standing awkwardly by the door.

"Er... what's with the family outing?" he asks, glad he kept his previous mutterings to a low whisper, audible to only Slayer and vampire ears.

"I need you to look after them," answers Buffy, sad and nervous.

"Well, there's a boatload of manly responsibility to come flyin' out of nowhere." Then, only because her worried frown tugs at his heartstrings, he forces a cheeky smile onto his face. "What's the matter, Slayer? Not feelin' a hundred percent?"

"No," Buffy mutters, eyebrows narrowing.

"They didn't put a chip in your head, did they?"

"No!"

"Be funny if they did."

"Spike," she hisses, slapping his chest lightly. "I need an answer. You're... you're the only one strong enough to protect them."

There's veiled panic in her green eyes, and Spike suddenly understands the cause.

"That... that Glory bitch... she came to your house? Threatened you... threatened to hurt..." he looks toward the other two Summers women.

Buffy nods, almost tearful. "I can't handle this alone."

"Good thing you _don't_ have to go at it alone, then." Taking her right hand, he gives it a gentle squeeze. "You can trust me, Buffy. I'll protect them, don't you worry your pretty head about anythin'. Just go send that sorry Council lot packin'."

And before Buffy can decide if she wants to stop him, Spike threads his other hand into her hair, tips her head towards him, and quickly kisses her forehead. Her breath freezes in her throat, and for an instant she wishes Dawn and her mom were nowhere near the crypt, so she wouldn't have to stop feeling his lips.

"Ladies," he calls out to his guests, "come on in. Make yourselves at home. Sorry I haven't had time to straighten up. Swept the glass bits away, but that's about it."

Buffy steps quickly to her mom and hands her the flashlight. "Wait here as long as you can. I'll be back soon."

"Or you could _call_, luv," Spike reminds her, grinning. "Got a phone now. Ring us up and I can chivy Mum and Niblet back home."

"Okay. I will when things are safe."

Buffy turns to leave, then glances back at him, remembering something Glory had said, right as Dawn had slipped back upstairs. _"I like her! She's sassy... and I'll kill her. Kill your mom, kill your friends... kill that vampire you've been exchanging saliva with... and I'll make you watch while I do..."_

"Spike..."

"Yeah, luv?"

She doesn't quite know how to ask, hopes her pleading eyes can get the message across without having to speak. Spike tilts his head, glancing momentarily toward her family members, and Buffy nods anyway, turning her elbows open just a bit. Instantly, Spike crosses to her and slips his arms around her in a tight embrace, one that would surely earn objections from the members of the Scooby Gang but receives no censure from their current audience. Dawn looks on with absolute glee, and Joyce smiles, having noticed enough clues during Spike's last three days in their house to tell that sparks were forming.

"Thank you," Buffy breathes in his ear, clinging for just another moment.

"Anything for you, my love. I'll keep them safe. I swear."

"Yourself too."

"I will," he whispers, feeling as though a balm of healing is spreading through him, rinsing away his tiredness and the residual toxin from the stale blood. Reluctantly, he lets her go, and Buffy rushes for the crypt door, fearing her resolve will shatter if she looks back at three of the most precious people in her life.

The door slides shut, and Spike rumples his hair awkwardly, turning to Joyce.

"Well, uh... sorry for the state of the place, Mum. First impressions, an' all."

"It's the nicest, um... crypt... I've ever been in," she complements, smiling sweetly.

"And the only one," Dawn giggles. "Can I see the downstairs yet?"

Spike rolls his eyes, helps Joyce into the armchair, and squats by the TV to turn it on. "Just don't break anythin'. And don't make a lot of noise. _Passions_ is comin' on."

"_Passions_?" Joyce says eagerly, shocked that she's been unaware of their mutual enjoyment of the soap opera. "Oh, do you think Timmy's really dead?"

"No, no, she can just sew him back together. He's a doll, for... Hang on, Bit!" he says urgently as Dawn starts to move towards the fridge. "Don't go over there just yet."

"Huh?" Dawn squints. "You okay, Spike? You've got funny shadows under your eyes."

"Yeah, drank some pig's blood that had spoiled, upchucked a bit. Feel a'right now. Just lemme clean it up." He couldn't dream of telling the idolizing girl that he'd also sobbed his broken heart out on the floor of his shower.

Spike quickly zips downstairs to get a rag wet and then dashes back up to clean the spat-up fluid from around the floor by the fridge, still recoiling somewhat at the smell of the rancid swine blood. After pitching the soiled rag where he'd thrown his dirty t-shirt, he returns to the upper level, adjusting the slab so it remains open, the phone accessible.

"There now. Alls well. And I've got a surprise for you, Platlet."

"For me?"

Grinning broadly, Spike fishes out two Red Delicious apples and a bag of pretzels from a crate beside his liquor stash. He tosses one of the apples underhand to Dawn and carries the other piece of fruit and the pretzels over to Joyce, opening the bag with a soft tug.

"How thoughtful of you, Spike," smiles Joyce, taking the food he offers.

"You r'mmber'd!" Dawn hops up and down, her cheek full of apple. "You h'rd me say you n'd snacks!"

"Sit yourself down before you choke, silly Bit. I may be a little thick sometimes, but I listen to my Summers girls," he beams, perching on the arm of the upholstered chair and concentrating on the glowing television screen.

* * *

The encounter with the masked crusaders isn't really the last straw... more like an infuriating flaming brand that sets fire to her entire stack of 'last straws'. Still holding the tattooed knight's sword, Buffy softly closes the Magic Box door and approaches the table slowly, refusing to grace Travers with eye-contact.

"You're late," he mutters at her, shifting the papers in front of him.

"Yeah," Buffy answers stonily.

"Was there an attack?" Giles asks, not recognizing the sword she's bearing as one of their own weapons.

"Yeah."

"We can begin the review at last," mutters Travers, ignoring both Giles's question and the impressive steel blade in Buffy's hand. "We'll skip the more obvious questions..."

_Actually, we'll skip _ALL_ the questions_, Buffy glowers, laying the sword point-first on top of Travers's papers.

"There isn't gonna be a review," she says, expression cold.

"Sorry?" Travers rejoins skeptically.

"No review. No interrogation. No questions you _know_ I can't answer. No hoops, no jumps. And no _interruptions_," she adds as the Indian Watcher, Nigel, opens his mouth to cut in. Removing her coat, Buffy slowly paces between the table and the shop counter, letting her gaze pierce each of the Watchers in turn. Anya, Xander, Willow, and Tara stare down in silence from their seats in the upstairs gallery, eagerly anticipating a showdown.

"See... " Buffy begins, "I've had a lot of people talking _at_ me over the last few days, everyone just lining up to tell me how _unimportant_ I am. And I've finally figured out why." Looking straight at Travers, she grinds out, "Power. _I_ have it. _They_ don't. This bothers them."

Another poignant pause, and then she announces to the whole room, "Glory... came to my house today."

"Buffy, are you –?" Giles begins to ask.

"Just to talk," she reassures him, eyes still roving the Watchers. "She told me I'm a bug, I'm a flea, she could squash me in a second... only she didn't. She came into my home... and we talked. We had what in her warped brain probably passes for a civilized conversation. Why?... Because she needs something from me. Because I have power over her."

Hands on her hips, Buffy gazes with growing confidence over the three Watchers standing behind the counter, inventorying the supposedly incriminating merchandise.

"You guys didn't come all the way from England to determine whether or not _I_ was good enough to be 'let back in'. You came... to beg _me_ to let _you_ back in. To give your jobs, your lives some semblance of meaning."

"Oh, this is beyond insolence –" Nigel exclaims before his words are swallowed in a gasp, the knight's sword propelled from Buffy's hand into the wall just inches under his nose.

"I'm fairly certain I said no interruptions," Buffy scowls at him, her voice as steely as the blade.

"_That was excellent_," Xander whispers to Willow and Tara.

"You're Watchers," Buffy resumes. "Without a Slayer, you're pretty much just watching _Masterpiece Theater_. You can't stop Glory. You can't do _anything_ with the information you have, except maybe publish it in the 'Everyone Thinks We're Insane-O's Home Journal'. So... here's how it's gonna work. You're gonna tell me _everything_ you know. Then you're gonna go away," she fixes her gaze on Travers. "You'll contact me _if_ and _when_ you have any further information about Glory. The magic shop will remain open. Mr. Giles will stay here as my official Watcher, reinstated at fully salary..."

"_Retroactive_," Giles coughs into his fist, not even attempting to be subtle. Buffy nods.

"... to be paid _retroactively_ from the month he was fired. I will continue to work with the help of my friends."

"I, uh..." pipes up Lydia, quavering slightly, "I don't want a sword thrown at me, but... but civilians, I – we're talking about children."

Buffy smiles up at her friends – her anchors to normality, her pep squad or reality check when needed.

"We're talking about two very powerful witches and a thousand-year-old ex-demon."

"Willow's a demon?!" gasps Anya, feigning suspicion. Xander, Willow, and Tara give her mildly amused but exasperated looks.

"The boy?" asks the Watcher named Philip, still hunched from being thrown across the room during the spar with Buffy. "No power there."

"The boy... is the heart of the team. And he's spent more time fighting actual vampires than all of you combined."

"And the... the _actual_ vampire?" asks Lydia tremulously. "I mean... he _is_ William the Bloody... a most notorious –"

"I trust Spike," says Buffy with such fervency that Giles glances up at the Peanut Gallery and exchanges a worried look with Xander. Addressing the Watchers once more, Buffy prepares her ultimatum. "You all may be very good at your jobs. The only way we're gonna find out is if you work _with_ me. You can all take your time thinking about that... but I want an answer right now from Quinton, 'cause I think he's understanding me."

Travers awkwardly clears his throat, recognizing his own condescending words.

"Your... uh, terms are acceptable."

Whoops and cheerful applause break out from the Scooby Gang, and Giles gently smiles, his relief too grand for words. As the ovation dies down, Buffy sits across from Travers and sighs, not yet reassured enough to smile.

"See? No begging. Now..." she leans slightly toward him, her face lit by the glow of the table. "Glory. I wanna know."

Travers exhales uneasily. "There's a lot to go through."

"Just tell me what kind of demon I'm fighting."

"Well... that's the thing, you see. Glory isn't a demon."

"What is she?" demands Buffy. The tension in the room couldn't be cracked with a sledgehammer-sized ice-pick.

"She's a god," says Travers finally.

Buffy stares at him, waiting for the '_Gotcha!_' that she knows isn't coming.

"Oh," is all she can manage to say.

* * *

"Bugger, that's loud," Spike observes as the telephone jangles, heralding its successful installation. Gently scooting Dawn against the side of the armchair instead of his shoulder, where her head had dropped when she'd fallen asleep, he jogs to the ladder, hastens down it, and snatches up the phone.

"Ello, Vampire Babysitin' Services?"

"Spike, you goof! It's Willow."

"Oh, hey Red," he murmurs, biting back disappointment. "Buffy alright?"

"Yeah, she's on her way back to her house now. She asked me to call before the rest of us left the shop. Giles is taking the Watcher posse to the airport."

"How'd the grand face-off turn out?"

"It was awesome!" gushes Willow. He can practically hear her hopping up and down with glee. "She was like 'you guys suck', and 'tell me everything you know or you're fired', and..." her voice mellows considerably, "and Glory's actually a _god_ and we're all kinda freaked."

"Whoa. That's a downer. But... it's all quiet on the Sunnydale front for now? Slayer wants me to bring Mum and Lil' Sis home for the night?"

"Uh-huh."

"Sure thing, then."

"I didn't know you had a phone. When did you –?"

"I'll tell the rousin' tale later, a'right Wills? Got two sleepy Summers to drive across town."

"Oh. Okay. Bye-bye, Spike."

"Later, cutie."

He sets the receiver back down in its cradle and stumbles back to the ladder, another wave of exhaustion threatening to knock him out. His head's been pounding since around nine, and it's near midnight now, but he'd refused to fall asleep even after both Joyce and Dawn were out for the count. Letting his knees hit a lower rung of the ladder, Spike bends over and lays his forehead in his palms.

"Just a little longer... Oh, God, help me..."

"Spike?" calls a voice from upstairs.

"Down here, Niblet. Wills just called to let us know it's safe to bring you back."

Shaking his head and blinking until his vision rights itself, Spike ascends the ladder, watches Dawn stand up and pull on her jacket, and switches off the TV.

"Joyce," he says sweetly, patting her arm to rouse her, "time to go home, pet."

Mrs. Summers awakens quickly, motherly senses on the alert. "Oh... what... do you know what's happened?"

"Just that Buffy got what she needed from the Watcher chaps an' sounded the all-clear for you two. Come on, Mum, you'll be a lot more comfy in your own bed than in my ratty ol' chair."

He helps her to her feet, tucks her hand around his elbow, and opens the crypt door. Dawn following, he guides them to the parking lot beside Restfield Cemetery and unlocks his DeSoto. Joyce situates herself in the passenger seat, while Dawn scrambles into the back.

"Sheesh! You drive like Giles," the teen snickers fifteen minutes later as he pulls onto Revello Drive. "Cars _can_ go above thirty miles an hour, ya know."

"Midnight on a Saturday, Bit," he mumbles into the rear-view mirror. "Just tryin' to keep you an' Mum safe from any sloshed whelps playin' bumper-cars." _Not to mention I can barely see six soddin' feet in front of me..._

"I think it would've been faster to _walk_," Dawn grins.

Ignoring her playful jibes, he turns into their drive, parks, and slumps in his seat with a groan. Buffy hurries down from the front porch and opens the passenger-side door for her mom. Clambering out of the back seat, Dawn whispers something to Buffy – that sounds like "_Feed him!_" – before dashing into the house and thundering up the stairs. Buffy stares quizzically after her sister as she escorts her mom to the front door, but Joyce turns to call back to Spike.

"Coming inside, William?"

"In a mo'," he answers, standing up but still leaning heavily against the side of the car.

"I think the poor boy is unwell," Joyce murmurs to Buffy, crossing into the foyer.

"Vamps can't get sick, Mom," Buffy clarifies, nevertheless troubled by this observation and Dawn's urgent command. "I'll get him a blood packet, and I guess if he wants he can stay here tonight. It's not like he's forgotten where the couch is."

Mrs. Summers nods and starts scaling the stairs on her own, while Buffy whirls back around at the sound of Spike's heavy tread on the aggregate path. The instant he's over the threshold, they wrap their arms around each other, holding tight, not even caring that the front door is still open.

"Glory's a god," Buffy whispers into his leather-garbed shoulder. "That's... what they found out."

"So said Carrot-top. Like a real, thus-sayith, holier-than-thou..."

"Hell-god, so more like un-holier-than-thou, but yeah."

"Cripes."

"Travers gave Giles some old text, Book of Tardis, I think he called it. Looked like somebody had put it in a kiln and forgotten about it for a day or so. It has all the... the details."

"We'll beat her, Slayer. Nothin' in the universe you can't give the sack to."

"I was so scared when she came here. I was afraid that... when she looked at Dawn..."

Her words are swallowed up by an unsteady gasping, eyes brimming over. Though his strength is ebbing quickly, he kisses the salt trails from her cheeks and presses his lips to hers, soft and chaste.

"It's alright, baby. The bint's gone. You... you held your gr... Oh, God, Buffy I'm fallin'..."

He tries to reach the door handle as his knees weaken, but it's just out of his grasp, and he slumps head-first into the open door with a light _clunk_, then slides to the floor.

"Spike!"

"Sorry, luv... just so tired..." he moans. Buffy kneels beside him, a hand to his cheek.

"Spike, what's wrong? Are you hurt?"

"Nah, just... my ol' pal Sleep an' I've had a bit of a fallin' out."

"Here, I've got you," she whispers, gripping Spike's wrist. Incredibly grateful for Slayer strength, she tips him across her shoulders in a fireman's carry, taps the front door closed with her foot, lugs him into the living room, and deposits him on the couch.

"I'll get you some blood. I know we still have at least one packet from the hosp– "

"Wait... gotta lemme see it first..." he slurs, attempting to stand up again.

"Why?"

"Already had my share of spoilt blood today. Been five days since I was here, all the plasma's pro'ly soured."

"Either that or your crypt fridge is a gimmick. Now don't move!" she instructs, pointing a warning finger at him as she dashes into the kitchen.

"Love it when you go all dominatrix on me, pet," he chuckles wearily, shrugging off his duster and wadding it up for a pillow on the armrest. "I mean it, though... I wanna see the dates 'fore I drink any."

"Fine," she yields, bearing the two remaining bags of donated human plasma into the living room. "Hope you can read serial numbers."

She hands him the two packets and hangs her coat up by the front door. Holding one close to his eyes, he reads the many labels, then lets his demon emerge with a soft growl and a roll of his neck, rips a top corner of the bag, and inhales deeply.

"Thank God..." he groans, latching his mouth on the tear he made and tipping the bag up until it can flow freely. Sitting on the coffee table, Buffy watches his vampire face intently as he swallows, from the bobbing of his sexy Adam's apple to the now-prominent circles beneath his lower lids.

"What did you mean, fell out with sleep? How long?"

"Three days, I think, plus tonight," he mumbles, wiping his lip. The first bag drained, he snatches up the second and bites into it eagerly, taking long deep draws until it's also empty.

"That better?" she whispers, laying a hand on his knee as he lays the packet down and shrugs his handsome features back into place.

"So much better. Little watery, p'haps, platlets kinda separated... but loads better than that rancid pig rubbish."

"What's happened to you, Spike? Spoiled blood? Not sleeping? _Are_ you sick? Oh my god, the Watchers didn't poison you, did they?!"

She's already pulling at the side of her collar, baring her shoulder. Spike's eyes go wide.

"No, I'm... not sick. Dunno, just... got caught up in other things. What... what are you doin'?"

"Sorry, wasn't thinking," she murmurs, quickly readjusting her shirt. For one moment of blinding terror, she'd remembered the poison Faith had used on Angel, _Interfector Mortis, Killer of the Dead_. If the Watchers had done that to Spike...

"I'd... b-better go check on Mom..."

Spike clasps his fingers around her wrist as she stands to go. "Mum's asleep. So's Dawnie. I can hear their heartbeats. Please... stay with me, just for a bit... please, luv."

Buffy gives the upstairs one glance, sighs, and lets Spike pull her down to his lap. Leaning her arms and side on his chest, she nestles her head into the crook of his neck. He trails kisses across her forehead and her temples, then rests his head over her golden hair and breathes deeply, the influx of blood in his veins providing just enough energy to keep him awake.

"This isn't fair," Buffy sighs.

"You made the poofs give you the file on Glory and leave town, didn't you? Seems fair enough to me."

"No... not the Watchers... _us_."

Spike swallows, his insides tightening. He'd known this would happen eventually, had already prepared his heart, already shed his tears... just had hoped it would take a little longer.

"What about us, luv?"

"I'm taking advantage of you."

Spike blinks then lets out a disbelieving snort. "Funny way of lookin' at it. Hmm... a bloke is in love with a girl, and she is nice enough to rev his engine with a few kisses. Dear, dear, how cruel of her."

"This isn't a joke," Buffy says, turning a discouraged face up toward him. "You... you listen in a way nobody else does... and in terms of strength, you're my equal... and I guess you know how distractingly hot you are. I think that's got to be a sin."

Spike smirks, enhancing how the moonlight through the curtains throws shadows across his sharp cheekbones.

"Careful, pet. My head might s'plode, you puffin' it up like that."

"But that's... that's all, Spike. Yeah, I'm falling for you, but it's not... not love. It can't be."

"I'm in love with you, Buffy," he murmurs, as though she hasn't heard him the first bazillion times.

"I know. That's the not-fair part. You don't mind getting used."

He draws in a quick breath, working hard to keep the flinch of wretchedness from showing on his face. Being love's bitch doesn't get any easier, even after over a hundred years.

"Don't see how anybody's the worse for it, then. Wouldn't matter anyway, if I was bein' hurt. Evil. Deserve a little pain and punishment, or so says our resident Broody-pants."

Buffy stares at the floor, silent. Spike strokes a hand through her hair, then, jaw set, he puts a fingertip against her chin and turns her head to face him.

"Maybe it's not love to you yet, but you're blind if you think you feel nothin' for me. Your reflexes gave you away, luv. I saw what you did barely five minutes ago, ready to offer me your neck if you thought it'd save me from some venom the tweedy snipes had shot me up with."

"Spike –"

"I _saw_ you, so you can't deny it now, pet. You afraid you'll change your mind, decide I'm worth really lovin' someday?"

"I... alright, I do care about you, but I don't... I can't... your soul... I can't..."

She half-stands up again, trying to escape, but he holds tight to her shoulders, voice rough and pleading.

"Buffy, look me in the eyes... and tell me you're certain you can't ever love me?"

Slowly, her guilt-ridden gaze turns back and locks on his shining blue gems. She opens her mouth, takes a few puffing breaths, and then suddenly gives a whimpering sigh and hurls herself onto him, nearly tipping the couch backwards, burying her face in his t-shirt.

"Maybe. I don't know. It's all mixed up in my head... Slayer-Buffy and Buffy-Buffy and normal-Spike and dream-Spike and inner-demon-Spike... and they're all saying and doing different things..."

"_Dream_-Spike?" he notes, running one hand gently down her back. "Would that s'plain why you kept gigglin' at me the other night? Thinkin' naughty lil' thoughts 'bout me, pet?"

"Shut up," she mutters, and he feels the heat rush to her cheeks. Though tempted, he refrains from teasing and just kisses her forehead.

"Is this really all about my soul, luv? 'Cuz if that's all that's stoppin' you, let's ring up Demon Girl right now, get her to order one of those Orb of Thesul-whatsits. Red and Glinda can hex me up a nice shiny remorseful soul in no time... but then you'd have to tell 'em all, wouldn't you? Admit that you actually care somethin' for me, that you want me to be worthy of you?"

"They wouldn't understand. Xander and Giles would be so freaked that they'd have cows that produced whipped cream instead of milk."

"Okay... either I'm fallin' asleep for real this time, or that was a new flavor of metaphor soup, Slayer."

Grinning, he rains kisses over her hairline and holds her more snuggly in his arms. "Sometimes I wonder if I still _have_ my soul, buried somewhere down inside, if that's the reason I can still... feel everything. Joy, guilt... love. Maybe I was... a good-enough man when I was turned that the demon couldn't quite rip all of my soul out when it moved in."

"It doesn't work like that, Spike," Buffy murmurs.

"Your Watcher books tell you that? 'Cuz they're _always_ right, aren't they?"

"I wish it was true, though. Wish... you still had it."

"Soul doesn't make the man, sweetheart. Plenty of humans hold no qualms about killin' an' thievin' an' all that, soul or no soul. World's full of scum. Take for instance... I dunno, let me think-Travers..."

She giggles briefly, tracing her finger in invisible patterns on the sleeve of his t-shirt. They both fall silent for so long that when Buffy leans back and sits a little straighter on his thighs, she wonders if he's dozed off.

"Spike?"

"Hm, luv?" His eyes flicker open, bleary but sparkling.

"You... you're really important to me."

"Glad to hear it."

"And... and I trust you... and I feel safe with you, even with your bumpies. And I... I know you've... reformed, or whatever you want to call it. I know you're not just helping me fight evil for kicks or for money anymore. And... you do other amazing things all the time, like how sweet you are to Mom and Dawn. You do it 'cuz you... you love me."

"I do. What're you gettin' at, Slayer?"

"The... the not-soul-having is... still an issue, but... maybe, I... I can overlook it."

"Buffy...?"

"Th-the point is, we're... we're not d-dating, or courting or whatever they did in your century... and there will be no... no spending-the-night-over, except m-maybe you on the couch, but that doesn't count... and if anybody finds out, then we're screwed... and Giles will probably have _ME_ deported, and Xander will go all Van Helsing on you, even though I don't think he knows who Van Helsing is. Come to think of it, is Van Helsing even real? I mean, since you knew Dracula and everything – "

"Buffy..." Spike laughs, "stop your silly blatherin'... and just kiss me."

She's on him before the words are fully out of his mouth, hands tangling in his hair – pure, aggressive need, like the only way she can properly breath is by pulling the air straight from his lungs. Equally fervid, he winds his arms around her mid-back and pins her against his chest, enthralled by his beautiful Slayer.

"We can't tell them," she whispers around his lips. "Not yet..."

"Don't care. Love you... so much... also, still passin' out..."

"Oh, sorry..."

"Didn't say you had to stop," he smirks, pulling her on top of him and leaning sideways until his head's on the couch armrest. "You can still snog my face off while I'm asleep."

"Prefer you awake for smoochies," she murmurs, giving him one more drawn-out, passionate kiss before standing and picking the two drained blood bags from off the coffee table. "I'll let you sleep."

"Not gonna tell me what _dream_-_Spike_ does that you like so very much?"

She pokes him hard in the chest, then runs into the kitchen to throw the packets away.

"Ow! Uh... okay, then. Lesson the first, jabbin' the ribs is apparently a turn-on," he chuckles, gingerly holding his side as she flits about the room, closing all the curtains. When they're all drawn tight, Buffy leans over his head and – deliberately slow – deposits tiny kisses down his forehead, the shadows beneath his eyes, and the bridge of his nose, then mashes his lips under hers until he's groaning with desire.

"Not fair... I was a'ready dizzy," he gazes up at her, upside-down from his point of view.

"Goodnight, Spike," she grins, heading for the stairs.

"Night, pet. Have fun with _dream-Spike_."

"Shh! I'm not gonna _dream_ about you when you're sleeping here!"

"Mmhmm."

"I'm not!" she insists in a harsh whisper.

"'Cuz... if I hear you askin' for me... I might just come upstairs and obey your wishes..."

"Spike!"

"Just somethin' to keep in mind, luv."

He smirks wickedly, loosens the cinch of his belt, and lets it clunk to the floor before rolling around to face into the couch. Blushing cherry-colored, Buffy flees into her room and locks the door _and_ window.

But she puts on the red nightgown again... just in case.

* * *

_To be continued..._

_A/N: Don't get your hopes up for naughtiness just yet. Delayed gratification is more fun anyway. Also, did you catch my sneaky Doctor Who reference? 'Book of Tardis' when it should be 'Tarnis'. Hee-hee!_

_Random note: for purposes of this story the Knights of Byzantium are the equivalent of humans but from another dimension, which means that if necessary, Spike will be able to fight them. Review pretty please! =)_


	17. Chapter 17: Lines Blurred

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for every single review! =) Feedback is always appreciated! Sorry for the long wait! My computer spazed out and killed a few paragraphs, which I had to try to recreate from memory.

I've been nominated in the _Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards_, round 28! Voting ends June 30, 2013. Thanks ever so!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts mixed scenes from "I Was Made To Love You", and "The Body", both direct and altered quotes. Also bits from "School Hard" and "Spiral".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Watchers scram; Glory's a god; Spike and Buffy are a secret couple, sort-of. Something about Giles and Xander having cows._

* * *

Chapter 17: Lines Blurred

"Payback time, mate," Spike whispers into the darkness. Coat billowing, he licks his chops and stalks after the shadow into an alleyway near the docks, his eyes flickering between sapphire and gold. "See how _you_ like bein' followed wherever you go... can't get away from me now, you sneakin', stinkin', dirty little... _The FISH TANK_?!"

These last three words are shouted in an incredulous bellow, and the robe-clad Glory-worshipper leaps a foot in the air, whips around, and yelps at the sight of Spike.

"Oh! Oh d-d-d-dear!" squeaks the androgynous, scabby minion. "S-s-s-stay away, or face the wrath of the most exquisite Glorificus! I am employed in her s-s-s-service!"

Spike glances around mockingly. "Funny... don't see your god anywhere around at the mo'. I guess that means I can eat you..."

Completely squicked, the underling shrieks, lifts its tunic up to its grey, knobbly knees, and hightails it for the nearest well-lit street, leaving Spike standing alone near the entrance to the disreputable nightclub.

"Yeah! That's right! Run for your life, you lil' pustule!" he spits after the fleeing cretin, then stuffs his hands in his duster pockets, glaring skeptically up at the sign to the Fish Tank. "Been awhile since I graced this watering hole... blimey, smells worse than I remember. Wonder what the witless groveler was doin' here."

Intrigued, Spike saunters forward and pushes open the door, stepping into the swelteringly sticky atmosphere. The 'music' seems to have been selected by a DJ who is both tone-deaf and drunk, and the abrasive, over-synthesized industrial tones grate on Spike's eardrums. As he remembers from his brief encounter with this place three years ago – back when he was only interested in seducing an easy meal for Dru – the bar is tightly packed with nearly identical delinquents, a maze of tattoos and tank tops.

"Hey," says a girl with a black pixie cut, sitting on a barstool, assets barely covered. She hooks her fishnets-clad leg around Spike as he passes the bar and leans over, exhibiting the calligraphy tat that disappears into her cleavage. "Whoa. You're hot."

"So they tell me, pet," Spike drawls, otherwise ignoring the tipsy flirt. From what Buffy and the Scoobies have said about Glory, this definitely doesn't seem to be the kind of joint the hell-goddess would stoop to visit. She's all silk negligee, girly lotion, and cocktail dresses, according to them... strange how _he's_ still never set eyes on the beastie.

The bar-girl, by now, is panting and practically drooling, running a finger down his leather jacket's lapel. "Ooh, hot accent, too. Where're you from?"

"Best find another playmate, doll," he says irritatedly, spotting a familiar head near the pool tables in the back. Thankfully, it's as far from the pounding subwoofers and the half-sloshed strumpet as he can be without actually leaving the building.

Pulling his duster sleeve free from the inebriated girl, Spike slowly makes his way through the crowd – the tightly compacted bodies impeding him from faster progress without risking the chip's sensitivity to mild-mannered shoving. Finally, he reaches the quieter back wing of the bar and claps a hand on the construction worker's shoulder.

"Fancy seein' you here, Harris!"

Xander jumps almost as high as the long-skedaddled minion, and Spike chuckles.

"Spike! How the... what... how'd you find me?"

"Followed one of Glory's bugaboos. Didn't know the imp was tailin' you, a'least I think that's what it was doin'. Speakin' of, what brings _you_ to the rankest gin-joint in town, mate?"

"Well, since the Bronze had a bad case of rampaging troll, this is the only dive that A, has a pool table, B, has little-enough demand so the table's vacant enough that yours-truly can play a slower game – " he hefts his cast-bound arm, " – and C, isn't populated by demons, at least until you showed up."

"Fair points. Grab me a cue, and I'll cover your tab for a few games."

Xander stares at Spike as though he's speaking some combination of pig-Latin and Fyarl demon. "You'll what?"

"I said... gimme a pool cue, let's play a round or two, and your beer's on me," Spike shrugs.

"O-kay... who replaced you with a friendly, thoughtful, so-not-Spike robot?" says Xander, holding his own pool stick defensively.

Spike grits his teeth. Being 'nice' to the whelp was part of a secret promise he'd made to himself the morning after falling asleep on Buffy's couch last week – that he would do everything in his power to prove to her friends that he could be a good man for Buffy, which for starters meant demonstrating that he could not be plotted anywhere on the Angel-Angelus spectrum. He's quite sure the broody poof would never have gone out of his way to immerse himself in the commonplace activities of the Scooby Gang. So Spike was going to try... even if he had to clench his jaw against the nauseating smell of pubescent sweat and the brain-liquidating, pounding 'music' the whole time.

"'M not a robot, just thought you'd jump at the chance for a free pint or two."

"That's not the issue, deadbeat. The question is, why are _you_ offering? I learned in the harsh, cold environment of the Sunnydale High cafeteria that there's no such thing as a free lunch... particularly when the insane kitchen lady has a nervous breakdown and tries to murder us all with rat poison... but that's not the point either..."

"Harris," Spike cuts off his tirade, "I'm not offerin' lunch, free or otherwise, just your choice of overrated American beer and a... a bloke to talk to. Somethin' tells me you and Rupes don't sit around in smokin' jackets, drinkin' Earl Grey and discussin' the latest twaddle from the old country."

Xander's expression changes from sarcastic distaste to plain incredulity, and Spike knows he's hit the mark. The whelp's constantly surrounded by a flock of girls and a middle-aged British man; the last good friend he'd had in the Scooby Gang was that werewolf guitarist who nearly broke Red's heart. Spike has gathered from his restricted interactions with the Scoobies all throughout the previous year that Riley had always been more of a unachievable archetype for Xander than a friend – the beefcake soldier with his real weapons and hand-signals and whatnot. If Spike played his cards right – or in this case, his eight-ball – he could perhaps persuade Xander that having himself as a regular on the Scooby team wouldn't be such a travesty... and from there it was only a short logical jump to convincing the carpenter of the benefits of Buffy having a relationship with an altogether different vampire than Angel.

Xander's shoulders droop in a surrendering shrug.

"Oh, okay. But I have to warn you, not so great on the cast-eye coordination right now."

"I'll go easy on you," smirks Spike. Once he carefully maneuvers to and from the bar for their drinks, Xander sets up the triangle of pool balls and breaks, pocketing a stripe. As the boy circles the table to line up his second shot, he suddenly snaps two fingers in the air, remembering something.

"Oh, hey! You'll never guess which two of the gang the Council toads complained about."

"Uh... your bird and Red?" Spike guesses. "Power-snobs like the Council'd pro'ly be most worried 'bout those two, I'd wager, even if your lady's straight-up human now."

"Wrong. You and me."

"Come off it, Harris!" Spike chortles. "Wait... you are jokin', right?"

"Nope. Thought I was too useless and you were too... well, vampire."

Spike nods thoughtfully, half-occupied with planning his next shot but also dwelling on Xander's phrasing. _One of the gang already, eh? Maybe this'll be easier than I thought_.

"Got the impression that Lydia tart quite fancied me," he grins, then shudders. "Or more likely she just wanted me in my unmentionables so she could experiment on me."

"Nah, don't think the Watchers and the Initiative would have ever been buds. R'member when Giles found out about Maggie Walsh? About how all of the sudden she was the Big Bad that all the other Big Bads feared? Or... did you know about that?"

"You bet I knew!" Spike laughs, sinking one of the solids. "Poor ol' Watcher was so off his game he let himself get pissed with an enemy."

"Don't you mean pissed _at_...?"

"Sorry, forgot you lot speak Southern-Californian," smirks Spike, applying more blue chalk to the tip of his cue. "In the King's English _pissed_ means _drunk_. Rupert got sloshed with that Ethan Rayne scumbag, had his flagon spiked with a pellet of poison, turned into a... oh my God, how could I have forgotten?! Bloody idiot!"

"Spike?" asks Xander, totally befuddled as to why Spike has just smacked himself in the forehead.

"Oh, er..." Spike internally scrambles. If he shares the true cause of his panic attack – that thinking of the events on January 19th last year had reminded him that Buffy's birthday is a mere three and a half weeks away, and he hasn't the foggiest idea what to get her to top his already-wrapped Christmas present – he's sure the whelp will go berserk and probably tattle to Giles. "The..." he waves his hand at the balls arranged around the table, "the game reminded me of one I played at Willy's the other week. I owe a few kittens to a Hellion. Probably should drop over there tomorrow and pay up."

"Kittens?"

"Yeah, a bunch of demons use kittens as collateral," Spike shrugs, stepping away from the table so Xander can aim his next shot. "Make nibbles out'a the furry little things. Please don't tell Red and Glinda," he adds quickly. "Poor girls'd pro'ly have nightmares if they knew."

"And I say 'eww'," Xander responds, rather disgusted.

Their first game goes to the human, the second to Spike, and the third to Xander again, at which point he declares he should probably quit while he's ahead. Spike shells out some more bills for beers to go, and the two of them leave the Fish Tank for the welcomed near-silence of the alley. For the most part, the vampire has played the listener, allowing Xander to lead the flow of the conversation, mainly to complain about how all the women he's dated before Anya have been freakishly evil... or Cordelia.

"And she's workin' for my poof of a grandsire now, down in LA, so you can shuffle her into the evil category too," Spike nods, taking a sip of his beer.

"Who'dda thought... Angel and Cordy."

"But Demon Girl's real nice, Harris. You two have a great thing goin'."

"Yeah... it's just..." Xander stops walking and faces Spike with a shrug. "One second, she's just... my babe, you know? Then the next she's talking about stuff I don't get, like how much she knows about demon politics and dimensions... and she was majorly freaked about the Council, thought they were gonna kill her or something. I guess I never really thought about how... persecuted she must feel."

"Preachin' to the choir, mate. You'd be shocked. Even in the demon communities there's bigotry and peckin'-orders. Vampires get the worst of it in a lot of circles."

"How come?"

"'Cuz we straddle the human-demon line more than most types. The way I see it... I _have_ a demon, not _am_ a demon."

"Seems the same to me."

"Well, you wouldn't know, would you," Spike mutters, swirling the contents of his beer bottle. "Got the urges, the bloodlust, the cravin' for violence... but I've also got free will."

"But no soul," Xander reminds him, unnecessarily.

"See, you lot beat the whole no-soul deal over my head because of all that happened with Angelus, but you didn't have to live with him for eighteen years, before that gypsy curse put a stop to his games. He is a creature of extraordinary evil, even by vampire standards. He'd already cut a bloody swath through Europe for a century before Dru turned me. That soul ate him away from the inside 'till he was too burdened by his guilt to hold his head up. He was a lousy, hussy-chasin' clod before he was turned, and power made him ruthless. I'm not like that."

"So say you."

"So say the _facts_, mate. You think soulless Angelus would ever be caught undead swappin' tales with you over a beer and a game of billiards?"

"Maybe. If he was chipped."

"Rubbish," Spike scoffs. "I'll tell you what he'd probably be up to. He'd recruit some demons to do his dirty business for him. He'd get off watchin' them carve up some innocents, even if he couldn't lay a harmful finger on 'em himself... and once they were dead he'd... he'd..." Spike's gut clenches, thoughts of Angelus's more heinous atrocities sickening him, even after a century of being buried in his deeper memories. If that evil creature ever got a'hold of gentle Tara... or the Niblet... "Well... let's just say after bein' around you lot night an' day, gettin' to know you an' all, I'll be the first to throw a stake at my evil grandsire should he get his shiny soul extracted again. I'd kill him myself before I'd let him get close to any of our girls."

While Xander takes a second to ponder this unflinching pledge, Spike glances around and realizes they've walked all the way back to the parking lot near Restfield Cemetery, a few blocks from Xander's apartment.

"Well, um... guess this is where we part ways," the vampire shrugs, fishing out his lighter and pack of cigarettes.

"Guess so. Weird... I didn't have a bad time."

"S'pose I'll try to find a half-hearted complement in that," grins Spike, then remembers one other piece of information he'd wanted to give the whelp. "Um, Harris... Joyce has, um... invited me over... for Christmas dinner."

Xander shoots him a '_You seem to have grown an extra eyeball_' sort of look. "Joyce invited _you_? Joyce _invited_ you? _Joyce_ invited you?"

"Think you've covered every way to say it, mate. Yeah, she asked me when she and Dawn were hidin' out in my crypt, waitin' to make sure that Glory bitch-goddess wasn't gonna come snoopin' round the house anymore."

"Funny... how Buffy went right to _you_ in her time of peril," Xander mutters. "Didn't even think of hiding them at my apartment... or Anya's, or Giles's, or the dorm. Of all places to stick her mom and sister, she picked your _crypt_. The Fortress of Dark and Creepy."

"I've tidied up since last you stormed in uninvited," Spike replies good-naturedly, lighting up. "And Buffy did it 'cuz she trusts me... trusted me to protect them, fight off Glory an' her maggoty monk-things if it came to that. Besides, you lot were under the Council's shop-arrest, from what I heard."

"But... Christmas dinner... whatcha gonna do, leer at all of us while pretending to look at the food?"

"I eat human food all the time! A'course I'm not gonna stand up Joyce's cookin'!" Spike protests. "An' I don't _leer_ at you lot anymore! An' I've never leered at _you_ in a hungry way at all!"

"Teasing, Bleach Boy. Gosh, living on the Hellmouth has made you so serious." Smirking, Xander thumps Spike's arm. "Guess I'd better head home to my honey. I'll see you day after tomorrow at Buffy's."

"Night, Harris." Puffing lightly, he watches the carpenter take a few steps away, then turn to face him again.

"Spike... just 'cuz you think Buffy trusts you or whatever... doesn't mean you should, you know, assume that means something else. We all know about your little obsession."

Spike bites the inside of his lip. _Not an obsession anymore, kiddo. An' it's not just 'I think' she trusts me, heard it from her own mouth... that sweet, puckered mouth tastin' of peach lip-gloss and cappuccino and Slayer_...

"Uh," Spike shakes his head back to the present. "Right... a'course I'm not gonna take advantage of Buffy's trust, Harris. Her mum and sis would have my head. Fiesty girls, the lot of them."

"Oh, yeah, and you don't know the worst. You weren't around for Dawn's terrible tweens," Xander shudders at the many memories.

_Neither were you, mate, but that's between me, Buffy, Mum, and Watcher_...

"Anyhow, seeing as I don't want to get eaten by the oogly-booglies out here, I'm just gonna hustle on home," continues Xander, backing up a few more steps as he speaks.

"See you on Monday at Buffy's," Spike calls after him, dropping his finished cigarette to the asphalt and crunching it with the heel of one of his Doc Martins.

"Thank goodness," says a soft voice in his ear. "I thought he'd _never_ leave."

Spike only has time to half-turn his head around when small hands slip around his waist from behind and a warm face presses against his duster shoulder.

"Hallo, gorgeous," Spike whispers, his voice dropping an octave, turning rough with ardor.

"Hey, you," replies Buffy, squeezing him tightly around the middle. "Patrol with me?"

"Hmm..." he deliberates teasingly, slipping around in her arms until he's facing her. "Have to check my schedule, luv. I'm in such high demand at around nine o'clock on a Saturday night."

"Hang on... why do you smell like fish and sketchy?" she demands, pushing him away slightly and wrinkling her nose.

"Followed a lead on a Glory fledge, ended up at that nasty bar near the docks, and wonder of wonders, the boy happened to be there."

Buffy stares off in the direction where Xander departed. "What were you doing with him anyway? I only got here a minute ago and I think that's the longest time I've seen you two talking without somebody getting fist-happy."

"Tsk tsk, pet, can't go betrayin' our manly bond." Smirking, Spike runs one hand around her blond hair and cups her cheek. "B'sides, got to ask my girl about her day..."

He leans in close and gently nibbles the lobe of her ear. Buffy's mouth opens in a silent moan, breath quickening.

"So... how was your day, pet?" Spike whispers, still caressing her ear with his lips and blunt teeth.

"It... day... good..." she stammers, her hands sliding up from his waist to his firm chest. "Went to class... and... th-then I trained with Giles... a-and helped Mom look th-through the recipes... you are coming to Christmas dinner, right?"

"Wouldn't miss it for the world, my love."

She leans against him, stretching up for a kiss, her arms about his neck. He presses his lips to hers, deep and tender... but altogether too brief, as the sounds of several newly-unearthed vampires lumbering through the nearby cemetery cuts their caress short.

"Work, work, work," Buffy huffs.

"Nah, pet... this is our dance," Spike grins. He circles behind her so that they both face the three vamps skulking their way, and runs his hands sensuously up her body. Her legs quiver, her breath turning to a rapid flutter.

"Spi-i-i-ike, can't focus," she moans, melting backwards into his chest.

"Sorry, luv, just love this dance, love watchin' you. Nothin' in the world more amazin' and beautiful than you on the hunt, Buffy."

"But no pressure," she giggles, mustering the fortitude to push out of his embrace and draw out her stake. "I'll take the one in the ugly sweater, 'kay?"

"And I'll get the bowl-cut. Last to dust their target buys tonight's coffee, eh?"

"And whoever stakes the third doesn't have to help Dawn with her homework for a week!"

The three vampires stare in bewilderment at Buffy and Spike.

"Are you guys gonna fight us or what?" asks the male in what looks like an intentionally hideous Christmas sweater, for a themed party or something similar.

"Easy, mate, it's all in the set-up," Spike quips, starting to circle them, to trap the vamps between him and the Slayer. Buffy slinks in the opposite direction, perfectly coordinated.

"Oh, luv, I hope you don't mind..." Spike pauses as the vampire with the bowl-cut hairdo charges, only to be knocked over into a shrub from Spike's spinning wheel kick. "But I told Xander I was expected for Christmas, per your mum's invite."

"Oh." Buffy blocks the shoulder-heavy hook from the sweater-vamp, then throws a series of quick jabs into his face. "Why'd you do that?"

"Felt like the thing to do," shrugs Spike. Stake at the ready, he prowls around his quarry, avoids a few of its ill-aimed punches, and drives an uppercut into its chin. Before the vampire can refocus from the wallop, Spike darts in close and thumps the point of the stake into its chest.

"Got mine, sweets!"

"Aww! I was so close!"

Only a second later, the sweater-clad vamp is a puff of dust at Buffy's feet. The remaining new vampire glances between the blond couple, his knobby forehead extra-scrunched with confusion. Coat-tails rippling out behind him in the light wind, Spike saunters forward, eager for the killing blow, until...

"Spike?"

"Yeah, luv?"

He turns around rapidly, only to find Buffy directly behind him. Before he can step back, she seizes his lapels and plants a wet smooch on his mouth, tugging his lower lip slightly as she pulls away. Startled and greatly aroused, Spike's shaken back to reality when the third vampire lunges at him and loops a burly arm around his neck.

"Oi! Distractin' my manly bits is cheatin'!" he calls after the smug Slayer, judo throwing the vamp over his shoulder and onto the ground in front of her. She leans down, plunges the stake through its heart, and stands back up straight, hair windswept and eyes alight.

"Right! Coffee's on me, but you're stuck with Dawn's homew– Ahh!"

Her shocked cry deteriorates into a fit of giggles as Spike sweeps her off her feet and spins her in a circle, growling playfully into her chest.

"I love you so bloody much!" he laughs, clasping his hands together under her butt so she's held above him, legs around his waist. She sets her elbows on his shoulders, fingers weaving into his hair, releasing the wavy strands from their harshly gelled state.

"Slaying hasn't been this much fun since... Heck, I don't know if slaying has _ever_ been this fun!"

"It's 'cuz you've got a partner," he smiles up at her, radiant and proud. "Not tryin' to save the world from demons and dark forces all on your Lone Ranger lonesome anymore, luv, or with the clumsy Scooby brigade, good intentions aside. Got me as your wingman."

He rests the backs of his legs against a headstone, better enabling him to keep her supported in his arms. Safe in the darkness and solitude of the graveyard, the Slayer and the vampire she trusts above all others share lips and harmless touches and soft groans of bridled longing... as much a part of their unique dance as their battle prowess.

* * *

"Now, uh... forks on the left, right?... I mean, left, correct?" asks Buffy, holding clumps of silverware in both hands.

"Yes, forks on left, glasses and knives and spoons on the right," Joyce smiles, handing napkins to Dawn, who arranges nine places around the table. Tara walks in from the kitchen with the butter dish, while Willow lights two candles as table centerpieces and a few others around the already tinsel-and-lights garnished room. When the doorbell rings, all four girls scramble to answer it, but Dawn's the one who manages to wrench it open.

"Hey Xander! And Anya," she says with significantly less enthusiasm than her face had showed only a second ago. While the two new arrivals remove their coats and add their contributions to the pile of presents in the living room, Dawn turns petulantly back to Buffy.

"He is coming, right? You made sure?"

"He'll be here," nods Buffy before heading back into the kitchen for salad tongs. Tara's already at the sink, cleaning a few of the pots so that the after-dinner clean-up is less overwhelming.

"Nine places at the table," she observes in a pleasantly casual tone. "Should I guess who else we're expecting?"

"Spike," Buffy confesses, hunting in the cutlery drawer. "I, um... wasn't sure what Giles would say if I told the whole gang, you know?"

"So... you two..." Tara trails off suggestively, smiling.

"Well, Mom invited him," she answers evasively. Finally unearthing the salad tongs, Buffy only manages to take one step back toward the dining room when she and Tara hear a tiny rap on the back door. Tongs forgotten, Buffy hurries over and opens it.

"You made it!"

"Gave my word, didn't I?" Spike grins. Underneath his trusty leather duster is a black dress shirt with faded paisley swirls, only half buttoned up, leaving plenty of ripped ivory torso exposed. His hair is gelled into slightly-spiked curls that just beg to be touched, and around his neck, wrist, and a few fingers are coordinated silver jewelry, simple chains and rings.

He steps through the back door and sets two boxes wrapped in red paper on the closest countertop before weaving his arms around Buffy's waist. "Didn't miss Rupes carvin' up the pork tenderloin, did I?"

"Spike..."

At Buffy's cautionary tone, Spike looks around and spots Tara. His arms immediately loosen but don't leave Buffy completely.

"Uh... evenin', Tara."

"Hi, Spike. Glad you could j-join us. I'll..." she sets the pot she'd been scrubbing back in the sink, "I'll just see if Joyce n-needs any help in the dining room."

"Oh, salad tongs..."

"I'll take them," smiles the blonde witch, picking up the utensils Buffy had abandoned on the island. The moment she leaves the room, Spike winds his arms tight around Buffy again, nose gently nuzzling her cheek.

"Pro'ly the only moment alone we'll have all night, eh, Slayer? Only chance for snoggin'..."

"We can't. Dawn might see... well she wouldn't mind... but Anya could walk in and then she'd be asking questions and making sex-comments all night, or _Giles_," she whispers, terrified by the thought. "He'd probably stake you with a burning pitchfork or something."

Grumbling and chuckling simultaneously, Spike quickly runs his lips across her temple once before reluctantly separating himself from her, shrugging out of his coat, and draping it over his arm.

"You look stunning, Buffy," he murmurs. He twirls one of her blonde tresses with his thumb, trails two fingers down her arm then back up, and gently tugs the fabric bow at her left shoulder.

"Thought you might like it," she smiles. She had purposefully chosen the cherry-red sleeveless blouse because it resembles the nightgown that Spike has so complemented. "You clean up okay yourself... except what's with all the pawn shop jewelry?"

Eyes widening slightly, he swallows hard. "Dunno. Thought it was a human thing to do, dress up in gaudies for a special, holiday-type occasion. If you don't like 'em..."

"No, I _do_, just didn't expect... it's quite a different look on you. Elegant yet edgy. Almost like a bit of William is peeking in through Spike's sharp edges."

Spike smirks. "They're one and the same, pet. The two halves of my coin, just like you, gorgeous."

"If you sweet-talk me anymore, my mother is going to walk in on us making out and will probably drop something really important, like the pork," she warns teasingly as his fingers wander back to her bare arm, softly skimming her skin.

"Thought anymore about when you might... tell 'em somethin's happened between us?"

"Not yet. Everything with Glory..."

"I understand, luv. Take your time. Nothin' rushin' this." Exhaling for a courage boost, he glances at the door to the living room. "Avengers all assembled in there, I s'pose?"

"Uh-huh. I guess you could put... two presents?" she asks, suddenly noticing the red gifts.

"Mmhmm," he grins, knowing where her thought process is headed.

"_Only_ two presents?"

"That's Mum's and Niblet's. Got yours safe with me. Figured it was better to give it to you in private."

Buffy's brows narrow into a dangerous look. "You didn't get me something naughty, did you?"

He snorts a laugh and pats his back pocket. "Course not, mostly 'cuz you haven't told me your measurements yet. Though I _bet_ I could suss 'em out..."

"Spike!" she yips warningly as one of his hands runs between her waist and her hip. He obeys, retracting his arm just as Dawn walks in.

"You're here!" She rushes around the island and barrels into him, hugging him tightly. "What'd you get me? Can I open it now?"

"Steady on, Lil' Bit. Wouldn't want to muss Mum's schedule. Sure she's got it all timed out so everythin' is hot and tasty right when she wants it. Lemme put the gifts in the other room and then you can show me where I'm s'posed to sit, a'right?"

"Great!"

Seizing his hand, Dawn points quickly at something near the ceiling before she pulls him toward the living room, already occupied by Xander, Anya, Willow, and Giles. Their banter comes to a screeching silence as he enters.

"Er, hallo all. What's goin' on, then?"

Xander glances skeptically between his girlfriend and Giles, whose face is stony, while Anya and Willow look surprised to see Spike but accepting of his company. Spike notices Giles's glare – fierce enough to cause a lesser man or vampire to quail – and just smiles nervously.

"Wotcha, Watcher. Happy Christmas."

"Spike, you're not welcome here."

"Yeah, he is," Dawn huffs, crossing her arms and giving her sister's mentor a notorious teenage scowl. "We invited him."

Giles removes his glasses and folds them, stepping between the vampire and Dawn. "Spike... listen to me..."

"Wait, Giles. It's just... I'm tryin' to explain here... Joyce asked –"

He never has the chance to finish his sentence as Giles shoves him back against a glass-fronted armoire, the contents within rattling. The Watcher's face is flinty, remembering another special occasion from years ago... roses and music, a white face on a pillow, her neck abnormally bent. _Allow a vampire inside the inner sanctum, treat him like a friend, like family... and this is the result,_ his memory warns him.

"Clear out of here, Spike," Giles demands. All the others in the room stand totally transfixed by the venom in the Watcher's voice. Even Dawn is stunned speechless, glancing frightfully from Spike to Giles.

"Rupert," Spike tries again, his voice as calm as he can keep it, "Joyce invited –"

"This is a family gathering," Giles interrupts harshly, stepping in close, eyes riveted on Spike's. "You are not family."

"Technically, neither are you," mumbles Anya. "Or most of us." Giles ignores her.

"This is not your way to Buffy," he snarls into Spike's face. "There _is_ no way to Buffy. Spike, this thing... get over it."

Spike smiles softly. "I don't know what you mean."

"Yes, you do. Move the hell on."

"But Giles..." Dawn says in a tremulous little voice, "Mom and I asked him to come for dinner."

"We'll inform Joyce that he couldn't attend," Giles replies stiffly, stepping aside only enough to give Spike a straight path to the front door.

"The lady of the house invited me," he protests, bristling under the Watcher's vicious stare. "Not showin' her up. Wouldn't be right."

"Get out."

"I don't follow your orders, Ripper," Spike glowers.

Patience snapping, Giles seizes Spike by the shirt collar and hauls him to the front door, shoving him outside onto the front porch. Xander finally finds his voice.

"Yeah, just flutter away like a vampire-bat-outta-hell," he calls quietly, hoping the humor will soften the frozen poses of everyone in the living room.

Trying to maintain his battered dignity, Spike mock-bows to Xander and masks his humiliation and anger in his characteristic curled-lip smirk.

"Thanks, Harris. Thought you were outgrowin' your bigot stage. Guess that pool and banter routine on Saturday night was a one-time only."

Willow, Dawn, and Anya glance in surprise at Xander, who hunches his shoulders with shame and fiddles with an ornament on the tree. Giles remains in the doorway, blocking it like a bouncer demanding to see the IDs of underage bar-goers. Fuming, Spike stuffs his arms back into his duster sleeves.

"Enjoy your present, Platlet," he shouts, hoping his voice will carry over Giles's shoulder into the room beyond. Turning, he heads down the driveway, shuffling his feet angrily.

"Spike!"

He instantly whips back around at the sound of his Slayer's voice. Buffy appears behind Giles, Joyce by her side, both wearing oven-mitts and shocked expressions.

"Rupert, whatever is the matter?" inquires Mrs. Summers. "Now I know you might have thought William was crashing our little party, but it's quite alright. I invited him."

"I... Is his presence really appropriate for an event like this?" Giles murmurs to Buffy's mom, clearly attempting to sway her to his side.

"Of course," Joyce replies cheerily. "He's our dear friend, and he's been so accommodating. Didn't Dawn tell you all that Spike hosted the two of us after that horrible woman came to our home?"

Giles bridles, clearly remembering how adamant and complementary Dawn had been of the vampire's company, how he had provided her with snack foods and shared tales of his global escapades... hardly appropriate material for an impressionable young girl.

"Joyce, I really don't think..."

"Come on in out of the cold, William," Mrs. Summers calls out to Spike, not even waiting for Giles to finish. Cautiously, Spike returns to the porch and stands waiting for Giles to unblock the doorway. He chews on his lip, stifling the urge to let loose some provoking comment, '_You heard the lady_,' foremost among them.

Looking as though every cell in his being protests, Giles steps aside. "Buffy, may I speak with you for a moment?"

Buffy cringes. "Um... dinner's almost ready. Maybe –"

"This will be brief."

With a lingering glance at Spike, Buffy follows Giles into the kitchen, drops her oven-mitts on a clear space of countertop, and faces her Watcher.

"What's up, doc – er, Giles?"

"This is outrageous," he says, harsh and indignant. "Your mother and sister may have been charmed by his behavior, but I expected better of you, Buffy. Regardless of the chip's impediment to any actual violence, he is a barbaric creature without a soul. Need I remind you that the woman I loved was murdered by a monster like him? That I was tortured by the likes of him? And you expect me to just sit politely and eat pork and sweet potatoes at a holiday gathering with the loathsome creature?"

"You seemed to swallow your turkey just fine last Thanksgiving," she huffs. "Spike was there then, too."

"That was quite different. He was our prisoner. He was bound to a chair, not prancing about as though he's the honored guest."

"Spike isn't prancing, and he isn't Angelus, Giles. Funnily enough, while Angelus was torturing you, Spike was helping me rescue you and save the world."

"He's a soulless _thing_."

_Yeah, but he's _MY_ soulless thing_.

"Look, it's not a discussion," she decrees as the oven timer rings. "He stays. Get over it."

For a few seconds, Giles impersonates a drowning fish, blubbering in astonishment. Thankfully, Joyce and Tara enter the kitchen to pulls the pork tenderloin out of the oven, and Buffy picks up the basket of warm rolls.

"I want us to have a perfect Christmas dinner," she says softly, turning back towards him as the two other women enter the dining room. "And before I find something wooden to knock on and un-jinx myself, I just want to remind you how messed up my life has been these last few months. Mom's tumor... Glory... Riley... this is the first pause I've had in what feels like an awful long time. Please don't spoil this, Giles. Please don't churn up some vendetta against Spike because of what Angelus did to Jenny."

Thoroughly reprimanded, Giles just nods, accompanies Buffy into the packed dining room, and sits at the end opposite Joyce, stiffly ignoring Spike three seats away, ensconced between Dawn and Tara.

"Joyce, this looks magnificent," he smiles appreciatively at the Christmas feast spread over the Summers' dining table.

"Hopefully it tastes good too," smiles Buffy's mother. "Shall we say grace?"

* * *

"And it's a shame Willow and I conjured that troll right before the Watchers shut us down temporarily," Anya sighs over her empty plate, finally finishing a lengthy story. "We were closed for a whole week. It severely hampered the revenue intake of the shop, with people buying up eclectic Christmas gifts for their distant relatives. Imagine the money I could have made."

"Yes, well, I think we're just about ready for pie," Joyce smiles. She, Buffy, and Spike stand and begin gathering the dirty plates and serving dishes into manageable piles.

"Then I'll be pretty much ready for barf," groans Xander.

"Xander!"

"No, no," the boy clarifies off Buffy's shocked face and Spike's accusatory scowl, "barf from all the eating. 'Cause all was good, and too much goodness..."

"I'm taking it as a complement," Mrs. Summers beams at her surrogate son.

"Yes, uh, everything was delicious," adds Giles, also rising.

"Yes," Anya announces brightly. "I'm going to barf too!"

"Everyone's so sweet," Joyce mutters sarcastically, the joke sour on its second go-round.

"My nog tastes funny," says Dawn, squinting into her glass. "I think I got one with rum in it."

"That's bad," Willow looks around Tara and assesses the color of Dawn's cup.

"Yeah, now ol' Saint Nic' will pass you right by, naughty boozin' Niblet," Spike smirks, taking her empty plate and those of the two witches. He follows Buffy into the kitchen in time to see Joyce pull a smoking pie out of the oven.

"I hate this oven! It's burnt," Mrs. Summers says morosely, setting the aluminum pie plate on the island.

"Oh, no, it's just... blackened," Buffy consoles her. "You know, it's Cajun pie."

Giles retrieves a bottle cork from a drawer and shows Joyce the suggested after-dinner wine.

"Shall I open another?" he asks, deliberately turning a blind eye on how close Spike is standing to Buffy and her mother.

"Oh, do you think we dare?" Joyce replies with a cheery smile.

"As long as you two stay away from the band candy, I'm cool with anything," says Buffy, examining the pie. _Ahem_-ing awkwardly, Giles carries the wine into the dining room, and Joyce pinches her daughter's arm.

"You are a demon child."

"I live to torment you. Is that so wrong?"

"A daughter's duty, I suppose," Mrs. Summers smiles, pulling Buffy's forehead down for a kiss as Spike looks on longingly. With a quick glance at the vampire beside her, Buffy gestures at the pie.

"Look, all we have to do is just cut off a little bit of the burnt..."

She overestimates the crust's hardness, pressing down with the knife just a hair too much, and the pie flips off the counter. Lightning fast, Spike dives for it, hand scooping around the hot aluminum and lifting it safely back to the counter, fingers blistering.

"Ow! Dammit!" he growls, wincing. "Sorry, Joyce."

"Oh, gracious, don't apologize! You saved dessert," she reassures him. Oven-mitts in hand, she picks up the pie and knife. "How about I cut this out on the table where everyone can choose their slice sizes?"

"Okay, Mom."

The moment Joyce disappears into the dining room, Buffy whips around, grips Spike's wrists, and pulls him to the sink, flipping the water to cold.

"You burned yourself over _pie_! Priorities next time, okay?"

"Doesn't hurt much, just a bit shiny is all. Pro'ly not even second-degree."

"I'm sorry Giles was being a... what was it Dawn said about the Watchers?"

"An old fart?" he supplies, smirking.

"Yeah, Giles was being one. Holidays hit him hard sometimes."

"It's alright, pet. Love can cloud a man's perspective sometimes." Turning off the water, Spike encircles Buffy's shoulders with his arms, gingerly keeping his hands clear. "Have I mentioned... that this... is my favorite room... of your house?" he murmurs into her hair.

"'Cuz it's where the food is, right? The way to a man's heart –"

"You wound me, pet," he moans teasingly.

"I did try to slay you with a spoon in here, once," she reminds him, smirking.

"Ha! Forgot about that, though I was rather drunk at the time. So, luv, want your present now, eh?"

"Present? Oh, right... alone. Yes! Present. Gimme."

"A'right, a'right, keep your hair on. Play nice, or I might not get you anythin' for your birthday." _Oh, balls, what _am_ I gonna get her?_

"Tease!" she accuses.

"Sap," retorts Spike saucily.

"Vix– no wait, Slayer-phile!" she giggles.

"Gotcha that time. Merry Christmas, beautiful."

From his back pocket he draws out a simple silver bracelet with a flattened-out oval on one side. Unhooking the clasp, he slips it around her slender wrist and adjusts it to the right diameter so it's a practical level of tightness, not loose and jangly. Buffy rotates it so she can see the engraving on the flat portion: just two letters – BW.

"Buffy and William?"

"Yeah. Figured you wouldn't want to go around wearing somethin' that said 'BS'."

She flicks his nose with a fingertip, then leans up to kiss him. "I love it."

"I love _you_, Buffy."

Ignoring the stinging in his hands, Spike leads Buffy back toward the doorway between the kitchen and the living room, out of sight of the many peeping eyes around the dining table.

"Mistletoe, pet," he grins, eyeing the bundle of leaflets and red and white berries that Dawn had singled out shortly after his arrival. "Gotta do this proper. Christmas, after all."

"Wait... I have to give you _your_ present first," Buffy protests, remembering suddenly. "Dawn said you like Shakespeare, so..."

"In a minute, luv. Got somethin' else I want more."

Beaming, she raises her head – only the slightest tilt necessary to give him access – and molds her lips to his. Moaning softly at the long-awaited caress, Spike holds her tightly to his body as her hands find his hair and the cool silken skin of his chest.

Neither of them notice Tara enter the kitchen on a quest for more dessert forks. Barely pausing at the sight of the enraptured pair, she sifts through a drawer for the necessary silverware, but pauses on her way back into the festive post-dinner atmosphere.

"_Nebulae_," she whispers, and the air around Buffy and Spike's entwined forms starts to blur, as though shielded by a soft mist. Smiling, Tara slips back into the dining room, and under the charm's concealment, two powerful warriors – enemies by destiny, allies by convenience, partners by design – lose themselves in each others' embrace.

* * *

_To be continued_...

_A/N: (sings) "I think this one's mostly filler"... but I promise the next chapter will have more action, covering "Blood Ties" with a twist. Please review!_


	18. Chapter 18: Misinformation

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for every single review! =) Feedback is always appreciated! Also abundant thanks to anyone who voted for me in the recent _Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards_. If I won anything in round 28, I'll be sure to share.

Mildish smut warning!

Lyrics from RED's 'Breathe Into Me' are used. I know it's an anachronism, since the song didn't come out until 2006... but what the heck. I think it fits.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "Blood Ties", both direct and altered quotes. Also a quote from "Lovers Walk".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike plays pool with Xander at the Fish Tank and gets him to open up a bit. Giles is irritated that Spike came over for Christmas dinner. Tara casts a blurring charm so Spike and Buffy can smooch under the mistletoe without anyone else seeing them._

* * *

Chapter 18: Misinformation

"They're waiting... I said I'd come by between patrols..."

"I know, pet."

"S-so, we should go in..." Buffy whispers, gripping Spike by the hair on the back of his head, kissing him fervently in the alley behind the Magic Box. He loves the way she clings to him, as though pressing tightly against his clothed body isn't quite enough and she'd rather be under his skin... or have him inside her...

"Yeah, reckon so..." he breathes, not carrying ha'pence for the expectant Scoobies.

"We really should..."

"Mmhmm..."

"Ohhhh. Spike."

She fidgets her hips to mesh more connectedly between his legs, and he's torn between wanting to apologize for the state of his jeans or to chuckle because she seems pleased about it. He can't help that watching her in battle makes his body respond like a lecherous teenager, and that he can smell the matching reaction in her... a scent that's increasing in strength as she rubs against him. She's high on adrenaline, already close to a peak... just needs a little push...

He leans his back against the exterior siding of the building and cups her butt in his hands, lifting slightly, matching the pace she's already set. Her breath increases in raggedness, and she uses his shoulders as leverage, breaking off their kiss only to moan into his neck.

"Spike... Spi-i-i-ike..."

"Yeah, luv, that's it... Take me, Buffy..."

Then he ducks his head against her throat, noses aside her decorative black scarf, and flicks his tongue against her pulse point. The Slayer-side within her reels in fear, but Buffy doesn't care as the rest of her tips over the edge. She arches in his arms and bites his ear to muffle a whimpering cry, her hands clutching his shoulders so tightly she nearly pops them out of joint. Her body quivers, tenses, and then slowly relaxes, and he catches her as she slumps in his arms.

"I've got you, baby," he murmurs sweetly, lips tracing her hairline.

"That... that was..."

"Intense?" grins Spike, rubbing one hand up and down her spine. He's mentally applauding his own self-control – not in reference to his unsatisfied hardness, but to the fact that he's thus far resisted fist-pumping the air and cackling in triumph. _I just dry-humped a Slayer... MY Slayer... to a climax, in a public alley... with her sidekicks not forty feet away... maybe next time I can get her to scream my name..._

"Y-yes," Buffy sighs, her head dropping down to rest on his chest, arms linking around his ribs. "Sorry. I... I don't know came over me."

"Needn't be embarrassed, luv. You're a powerful woman... and slayin' gets you hot."

"_You_ get me hot," she mutters almost too quietly for even him to hear. He takes a deep, chest-swelling breath.

"God, Buffy, you can't even imagine how smashin' I feel knowin' that."

For nearly a minute, they remain in the dark alley, embracing gently, Buffy's heart-rate gradually slowing. Lifting her head at last, she glances at the back door of the Magic Box and blushes.

"Hey... don't be like that, pet," Spike whispers, tipping her chin up with one finger. "They won't know a thing. You look gorgeous, not a hint that there was a little dash of nookie thrown in with the slayin'."

Nevertheless, she fiddles nervously with her little silk scarf, as though the spot where his seemingly-magic tongue had set her off is now painted a vivid neon color.

"I could _give_ you somethin' to hide," he smirks. "Little love-bite of the human variety..."

_Could he, though? Would suckling her blood up to the surface of her skin be more than he could handle, enough to set off his demon and send him lurching backwards with a chip-sponsored headache? Bit of a romance-killer..._

"No hickies!" she hisses, and he wonders if her thoughts have charted the same course. "You're sure they won't know? I don't have slaying-hair, do I?"

He laughs and smoothes his palm over her golden locks. "Not at all, pet."

"Okay. Time for the powwow, I guess."

She steps away from his arms, but as her eyes sweep over him, she blushes again.

"Uh... Spike?"

"Yeah, pet?"

"You, um... you still have a... a problem." Her eyes flicker uncomfortably back and forth between his face and the stiff front of his form-fitting jeans.

"Reckon there might be stakes raised if I stroll in like this?" he smirks.

"It, um... it could get dicey if they see. Do you... d-do you want me to...?"

His breath catches in a hollow-sounding gasp as one of her hands hesitantly cups him through the denim. He's utterly dumbfounded, his head clunking back against the building façade, his brain emptying of willpower. _Yes... oh God, yes... no... urgh, hate havin' to be noble_... _be the selfless one, but that's always been my role when it comes to love. I'm love's bitch, after all_.

"It's alright, luv, don't have to..." he whispers, half-hoping she doesn't hear him. When her fingers immediately retract, he wants to box his own ears, realizing how much pressure he'd inadvertently put on her, how uncomfortable she felt following through her own idea.

"I'm... I'm sorry."

"Don't be, sweets, done nothin' wrong." He lifts her hand to his lips and runs kisses along her knuckles. "Just go in, ruminate with the Scoobies."

"What about you...?"

"I'll, um... I'll walk it off, slip in the shop through the front so they won't be any the wiser that we patrolled together."

With his whole body tingling – the pressure of her figure imprinted on him like his flesh is memory foam – he knows letting his arousal dissipate on its own will likely be faster than any release his cold hands could simulate.

She stretches up to kiss him, their bodies completely separate this time.

"Thank you, Spike. See you in a minute."

_Probably more than a minute_, he thinks glumly as she scurries into the back door of the Magic Box. Ambling away with slightly uneven steps, he heads for the Espresso Pump, hoping that the smell of a considerable amount of cheap coffee will help gloss over the incredible scent of Buffy permeating his head.

* * *

_My birthday? How can they be all worked up about a stupid scribble on the calendar at a time like this? Did Mom and Dawn put them up to this?_

"Look," Buffy sighs as Willow scurries around her, "I know Mom wants to gather and make with the merry tomorrow night, but with everything that's going on..."

"This is _exactly_ what you need," Willow interrupts, gesticulating happily as she sits on the under-lit table's bench beside Tara. "A twentieth birthday with... with presents, and funny hats... and those candles that don't blow out." Turning to her girlfriend, she whispers, "Those used to scare me."

"Me too," Tara admits back.

Buffy shakes her head at their clear lack of priorities. "I just don't think this is the best time to break out the party piñata. We need to stay focused if we're gonna find a way to stop Glory."

"We're going up against a _god_," Xander murmurs from the other side of the table, reflecting on the concept as though it's brand new information, not something that has been hanging over their heads for almost a month. "An actual mightier-than-thou god."

"Well, you know what they say," chimes Willow, ever cheery. "The bigger they are –"

"The faster they stomp you into nothing," Anya finishes, earning stares from all assembled.

"She's right," says Buffy solemnly. "I've thrown everything I've got at her, and she just shrugs it off." _Well, except Spike... but we're basically equally tough-y. I can't throw Spike at Glory... I need him, my back-up guy, the only thing left to defend Dawn and Mom if Glory gets the better of me_.

"Then we have to find something heavier to throw," Willow concludes. Her state of birthday-party-planning chipper cannot be curbed, apparently.

"That may pose some difficulty," Giles murmurs, finally closing his thin notebook and indicating the burned-looking tome lying open on the table. "From what the Council's been able to discover from the Book of Tarnis and other sources, Glory and two of her fellow hellgods ruled over... one of the more seriously unpleasant demon dimensions."

"Th-there's more than one?" asks Tara right as they all hear a slight scraping at the front door. The knob twists, the bell above the door jangles, and Spike steps inside, lock-pick in hand.

"Evenin' all," he grins, closing the door and flipping the lock back into place. "Didn't miss too much hullabaloo, did I?"

Giles – in a moment of uncharacteristic immaturity – rolls his eyes ceiling-ward as Spike approaches, and only Tara spots the flicker of a smile on the corner of Buffy's mouth. Hands deep in his duster pickets, Spike wanders about the shop, admiring the troll hammer and scoffing at the prices of certain candles and trinkets.

"We're discussing demon dimensions," says Anya brightly, then to Tara, "and yes, there are thousands of demon dimensions. All different."

"All pushing on the edges of our reality, trying to find a way in," Giles adds.

"I guess Glory found one," shrugs Buffy irritably. "The question is, why?"

"There's nothing to indicate that here." Giles waves a hand at the Book of Tarnis and stands as the teakettle whistles shrilly. "Just vague references to chaos and destruction."

"Just once I'd like to hear a reference to balloon animals," sighs Willow.

"Minus the scary clowns that make them," Xander amends.

"Okay, so, we know where Glory's from," interrupts Buffy, trying to rally the group's attention. Spike saunters over and leans against the ladder to the upper parapet of off-limit books and supplies, his eyes fixed on his Slayer. "What do we know about her? She's tough, yeah, but no bolts of lightning, no blasts of fire... shouldn't a god be able to do that kind of stuff?"

Giles pours several cups of tea and distributes them to Buffy, Willow, and Tara, retaining one for himself. "Uh, usually, yes, but being in human form must be severely limiting her powers. All we have to worry about right now is that she's immortal, invulnerable... and insane."

"A _crazy_ hellgod?" demands Xander. "And the fun just keeps on leaving."

Spike chuckles lightly, and once again Buffy's lips twitch into a smile for just a passing moment.

"From what I've been able to gather, her living in this word is seriously affecting her mental state as well," Giles clarifies. "She's only able to keep her mind intact by... extracting energy from _us_, well, from the human brain."

"Sh-sh-she's a brain-sucker?" Tara inquires, exchanging a worried glance with Willow.

"She, um..." Giles pulls the book in front of him and trails a finger down the page, quoting, " 'absorbes the energies that bind the human mind into a cohesive whole.' Once drained, all that's left behind is, uh..."

"Crazy people," Buffy mutters, hands cupped around her tea mug.

"Which is, I'm afraid, why there's been a marked increase in the ranks of the mentally unstable here in Sunnydale," nods Giles.

"At least vampires just kill you," Tara shrugs, glancing at Spike, who tips an imaginary hat in her direction.

Buffy stands up before the mirth on her face at Spike's little antics is noticed by any of her friends. "We have to find a way to stop her."

"Oh," says Willow, "well, Tara and I can work on some tactical spells."

"I can do some research," suggests Anya. "I know _way_ more about demon dimensions than Giles does. Well, I _do_," she insists off Giles's disdainful frown.

"This is great long-term plan-y stuff," Xander cuts in, "but what about this _key_ thingy Glory's looking for?"

Buffy's eyes flick to Spike as Tara's head bobs in agreement with Xander's advice. "Yeah, I mean, sh-shouldn't we be trying to find it before she does?"

"I don't think that's what we should be worrying about right now," Buffy says rapidly, _too_ rapidly. Spike watches her, senses the fear suddenly flowing in her bloodstream. She's waited this long to share with the ranks because of the threat that they would all inadvertently treat Dawn differently, _"act weird around her"_ being her exact phrase. But if not now, then when? What good does evasiveness do anymore, now that they know the intensity of the thing they're up against?

"They have a point," shrugs Willow. "Whatever Glory's planning on opening with the key, I'm guessing it won't be filled with candy and flowers."

Buffy bites her lip, almost wishing the discussion had stayed fixed around birthday parties and piñatas. If she doesn't say _something_, the gang could get horribly sidetracked.

"So," pipes up Xander again, "where should we start looking? Do we know where it used to be kept? Who saw it last?"

"We did. Giles and me," Buffy blurts out. "W-we know where it is."

She allows her eyes to make contact with Spike's for just the briefest nanosecond, hoping he'll understand – if the others, particularly Willow and Xander, knew that she's trusted _him_ all this time, it would hurt them beyond words. As her gaze transitions over to Giles, she sees Spike's chin dip in her peripheral vision, accepting her choice to keep her confidence in him confidential... like everything about their clandestine relationship.

"You what?" splutters Xander, just as Willow demands, "You knew, and you didn't tell us?"

"There were... reasons," replies Giles evasively.

"Look, if Glory knew that you guys knew where it was, I..." Buffy slumps back to the bench, staring beseechingly at Willow, "I just didn't want to put you in that kind of danger."

"As opposed to the other kind we're _always_ in?" huffs Xander, clearly annoyed.

Spike bites down a threatening growl. _Just trying to protect your bulbous neck, you ungrateful prat. Got the weight of the world on her shoulders, doesn't need you lot clamberin' all over her just 'cause she didn't preach all her secrets from a soapbox in the town square_.

"You should have said something," mumbles Willow, her indignation more subtle than Xander's.

"Wills, there was..." Buffy looks to Giles, then, for the first time since he'd forced his way into their private gathering, she turns her head fully to face Spike. "You're right. It's time."

"Are you sure?" Giles cautions.

"If they're going to be risking their lives, they deserve to know," answers Buffy.

"Know what?" urges Xander.

Buffy steels herself, and a miniscule shudder runs through Spike as he fights down the compulsion to go to her, comfort her, touch her...

"There's something... that you need to know... about Dawn," she whispers, meeting the gazes of each of her closest friends in turn, saving Willow for last. "She... Dawn... she's not my sister. She's... she's the key."

Fixing his face in what he intends to look like stunned curiosity, Spike wanders around the table to the bookshelf behind Buffy's left side, hoping his nearness will bolster her. Giles eyes him with mild disapproval, only briefly removing his attention from Buffy.

"Dawn is the key that Glory's looking for?" asks Anya skeptically.

"Yes."

"H-how... how do you know? Are y-y-you sure?"

"I'm sure. Glory captured and tortured one of the monks who performed the spell," Buffy answers Tara's inquiry. "He told me they knew the Slayer would protect the key at all costs if they made it something precious to me. So they... they gave me a sister. Glory doesn't know it's her."

"Dawnie... our little Dawnie isn't... isn't real?" Willow stutters, tears making their way into her eyes.

"Not in the sense that she's really my fourteen-year-old sister," nods Buffy. "All our memories of her are part of the spell. She's... she's really only been in our lives for about six months."

"Hold up. _Dawn_ is some kind of demon-y key thing? The trinket of a dimensional hellgod?" Xander scoffs, pushing off from the table and starting to pace in front of the ladder Spike had been leaning on. "I mean... man! I knew she could be tantrum-y when she didn't get her way, but I never would have guessed she's some kind of hellspawn!"

"She's _human_," Spike murmurs, drawing the eyes of all those around the table, some curious, others vexed by his interjection. "The Lil' Bit's no hellspawn, Harris."

"And what makes you so sure of that?" demands Giles, folding his arms.

Spike sighs. He hadn't intended on launching into this story... blimey, he hadn't even told Buffy about it, had been too exhausted that night... and elated that she'd finally accepted the idea that he could be worth the effort, that maybe... even if it took years... just _maybe_ she could learn to love him, see past his own demon.

"There's a... a card game. Niblet calls it Egyptian Rat-slap, was called Beggar-my-neighbor in my day, 'cept with a load of new rules that Dawnie swears by, 'bout slappin' doubles and sandwiches and whatnot. Anyway, I played it with her when she and Mum came over, and one time, dunno quite how, I pinched her hand reachin' for the cards. Don't think it hurt her at all, but nearly knocked me out with the headache. Chip fired, means she's human straight through. Nothing demon, no trace of evil in that girl."

His voice is rough, rich with fervency, and Buffy clasps her hands together underneath the table to stop herself from reaching out and taking his fingers in her own. Also deeply moved – and remembering how he had similarly defended her – Tara stands and crosses to Spike, laying a gentle hand on his duster-clad shoulder, and Buffy bats down a twinge of jealousy.

"But... she is the key," Anya requests clarification again. "Glory's trying to find her."

"Yes," whispers Buffy.

"D-d-does _she_ know... w-w-what she is? Dawnie?" asks Tara, returning to the bench beside Willow.

"No. She thinks she's just my kid sister."

"D-do we know _why_ Glory wants her? I m-m-mean, if she's a 'key', what does she unlock?"

"We don't know yet."

"What do we do?" asks Willow tremulously. "I mean, Tara and I could put up protection spells, early warning incantations... so if anything hellgodishly powerful comes near this shop, or your house, or anywhere Dawnie is, then screechy siren things will... you know, screech."

"Yes, perhaps that would be wise," Giles nods. "In the meantime, I suggest we all behave in our usual manner, proceed with Buffy's birthday party as planned."

"Really?" mutters Buffy, disappointed at their stubborn insistence of making a big deal out of her birthday. Big-deal Buffy-birthdays usually end in big-time disaster. "Don't you think the part where there's an evil hellgoddess after my sort-of-not sister is kinda a party pooper?"

"All the more reason to preserve as much normality as possible," Giles insists, opening up the Book of Tarnis again and withdrawing his thin notebook. "And perhaps it would not be amiss to increase the intensity of your training regimen. I'm not sure our regular workout is challenging you anymore. Perhaps we should make it harder."

"You always think harder is better," Buffy pouts. "Maybe next time I patrol I should carry a load of bricks, and use a stake made of butter. Um... speaking of, um, patrolling..."

"I'll cover King's Bluff and Restfield, if that's a'right with you, Slayer," mutters Spike, already heading for the door. "Night, all."

"Goodnight, Spike," says Tara, while Anya and Willow call out, "See ya!"

"What's with the sudden leather tornado a-whirling out of here?" snorts Xander, chuckling as the bell rings behind Spike's retreating figure.

"Oh, he... he's probably got some demon-poker game at Willy's to get to later," Buffy says evasively, reaching for her coat. "Bye-bye. See you at the torture– I mean, _party_ tomorrow night."

"Oh, Buffy...?"

"Hmm?" Half-way to the back door, she glances back at Giles.

"I believe... we would all prefer it if Spike were... _not_... to attend your celebratory gathering. His presence tends to... cause tension."

Xander coughs into his cast-bound arm, and Giles shoots him a confused frown, while Tara pinches her lips into a thin line, her own discerning eyes on the Watcher. Buffy flounders for excuses, then just caves.

"Fine. Just presents, no Spike-presence. I'm on it."

"Thank you, Buffy. Goodnight."

"Night."

The moment she closes the back door and takes one step into the alley, she hears a chuckle behind her ear and – _finally_! – his fingers slip through hers, entwining their hands.

"So... where does the birthday girl want to patrol first?" he murmurs, gently nipping her earlobe as they stroll toward the closest vamp-infested graveyard.

"Not you too! And it's not my birthday yet!"

"Is so. Midnight, luv." He tugs her around to face him and takes her breath away with a series of deep, drawn-out kisses. "Happy Twentieth, my dearest."

"You'd think Slayers could get vacation nights," she murmurs around his cool tongue. "Just once a year, maybe. But nope. Destiny waits for no birthday-girl."

"Tell you what, sweets, I'll cover patrol. You can go on home, rest up, or if you'd rather have the night off instead of the wee hours, I'll take patrol tomorrow night. Leave right after your party."

Buffy starts to shake her head, holding tight to his duster lapel, but at his final phrase her face turns still more doleful.

"Spike... um... promise you won't be mad."

His scarred eyebrow twitches upward.

"Quite a request there, luv. Won't be mad at _you_, that I can swear. What's the matter?"

"It's just... Giles asked that... well, he basically suggested _really_ firmly that you shouldn't come to my party tomorrow."

"Oh. He give a reason?"

"Something stupid, like you're a trouble-maker, or a tense-ness-maker, probably just that you make _him_ tense."

Spike chuckles, securing his arm around Buffy's shoulder blades as their feet cross the curb from pavement to cemetery turf.

"If the boot fits, precious. Been a bad boy for a long time. Well... can't say I'm pleased about it, but if it'll appease Ol' Watcher, I won't make an appearance. Just leave your window open a crack and I'll drop off your presents."

"But... it's _my_ birthday. Shouldn't I have the right to see who I want, invite whomever I want to my pa– did you say presents?"

"I did."

"Present-_s_."

"Mmhmm," Spike smirks, whisking his stake out of his outer duster pocket and offing a partially-risen vampire without breaking their joined stride.

"What'dya get me?"

"Wild horses couldn't drag it from me," he retorts, his face a humorous impersonation of martyrdom. _Technically, only got half your presents so far, still got some investigatin' to do_.

"Hate to admit it, but I have to agree with Rupes on one thing, though, pet," Spike grins several minutes later, panting slightly, four more vamps lying in piles of dust between then.

"What?" demands Buffy, her chest inflating and deflating rapidly from the heat of battle.

He spins her, pulls her against him, flattens her back to his front and... very slightly... bucks his hips into her backside.

"Harder _is_ better."

* * *

They laugh and slay and kiss their way through seven cemeteries, then Spike bids her farewell and happy birthday at her back door – only after snogging her into a dizzy, melt-y lump. He strides confidently through the deserted streets of Sunnydale, more jovial than he's felt since catching his Slayer under the mistletoe at Christmas. Funny, now that he recalls it... they'd kissed for what felt like fifteen minutes, with no interruptions, no intrusions from the Scooby Squad. In point of fact, when they'd finally, reluctantly, broken apart and returned to the rest of the group, the only one of Buffy's friends who'd showed any acknowledgement of their absence had been Tara... who had winked at Dawn when slicing Buffy a piece of pie... but maybe that was just coincidence, some girly joke about Buffy's slayer metabolism or whatnot. And then with Joyce mollycoddling his scalded hands in gratitude for him saving the crispy pie from its fatal fall, and then the gargantuan mountain of presents, even if none were for him except an art-history book from Mum and a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets from Buffy and Dawn... it had been the best Christmas Spike'd had since... since he was _alive_, and better than most of those as well.

Whistling merrily, he shoves open the door to his crypt, then closes it before actually letting the words of the energetic rock song in his head spill out. _"Breathe your life into me. I can feel you. I'm fallin'... fallin' faster... Breathe your life into me... I still need you. I'm fallin'... Breathe into me!_"

Still singing, he slides the slab aside, shimmies down the ladder, tosses off his duster and red over-shirt, and starts to tug his black tee up over his shoulders.

Then, with absolutely no warning –

"Hiya Spike!"

"Gahh! Cor blimey, Niblet!" Spike shouts, yanking his shirt back down. "What on God's green earth are you doin' here? You should know better than to sneak up on a man when he's headin' to bed! Cripes! I could have been naked!"

Dawn giggles from her perch on his second-hand desk chair, and Spike rolls his eyes, rapidly re-tucking his black t-shirt into his jeans waistband. "What're you even doin' up an' about anyhow? Shouldn't you be tucked away in your beddy-bye, all warm and safe where nothing can _eat_ you? Blimey, if Buffy knew you were out, middle of the night –"

"Nobody saw me. I got up early and snuck out of the house. And I'm not scared of anything."

"Bet _I_ could scare you if I tried."

"Oh, _pul-ease_. _I'm_ badder than you."

"Are not!" he cries, indignant.

"Am too."

"Dawnie, please. It's... it's got to be five in the bleedin' morning. It's near enough to _my_ bedtime!"

"But I need your help." She stands and approaches him, determination filling her large blue eyes. Spike sighs and sits down on his unmade bed.

"What, still got unfinished homework due tomorrow? I've told you a million bloody times, Platlet... gotta do some of't on your own, or else test-time'll come round and you won't know a proper thing. What is it this time, algebra? English?"

"No, it's not school stuff. It's birthday stuff." She steps closer, a mischievous smile on her face. "I want to break into the magic shop and decorate it, to surprise Buffy tomorrow."

Spike shakes his head blearily. Now that his temporary high from Buffy's company has faded, he's exhausted, he's just spent almost five hours doing super-strength martial arts, and he's almost certain he forgot to eat again yesterday. Just when he thought he might have been content enough to catch a couple of hours of sleep – when the aching for her expressed love in his head and heart isn't quite as throbbing as usual – he has to play babysitter to the key-thingy.

"Fine," he growls, reaching to pick his duster up off the floor. "But if you're late to school 'cuz you don't keep an eye on the time, Giles is gonna stake me clean through and dance a merry jig on my ashes."

* * *

"Niblet... you are insane."

"_What_?" she whines, holding a box full of party-store supplies and tools as he works at the Magic Box's lock for the second time that night.

"How many soddin' balloons do you expect to be able to blow up? Your face is gonna be purple. You'll be that nasty blueberry girl from _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_!"

"_You_ do it, then."

"Can't. Breath's not strong enough 'cuz m'lungs don't work the same anymore. They're really just for show. Why don't you forget the balloons and just hang streamers and throw confetti and tosh?"

"Well we can't do _anything_ unless you get us inside. Do you know how to do that or not?"

"Give us a sec... That's right!" he grins smugly as the lock yields. "Who's _bad_ now?"

Flashlight scoping the empty shop, Dawn strolls in as though the deed to the place is in her name. "Okay... I want three balloons at the counter, and the smaller sign hanging over it, like where Giles had the holiday one. Then the big sign goes across the balcony, a bunch of balloons on the main table, streamers here, here, and here... and then the little candies and confetti cups."

"Yes, your majesty," Spike huffs wearily, retrieving a hammer and two nails from Dawn's box. Sticking the nails in his mouth, he unfolds the first paper sign to reveal large glittery letters spelling out _Happy Birthday Buffy!_ "This 'un the big 'un or the little 'un?"

"That's the little one."

"Right."

He drapes the banner over the cash register, smoothes out the crinkles, and fetches the chair from Tara's card-reading table so he won't have to test the glass counter with his weight. Dawn wanders over to the back-lit table, where cups of half-consumed cold tea, the Book of Tarnis, and Giles's notebook still sit. She arranges a handful of multicolored paper bits and cheap mints, then tugs four balloons out of their plastic bag and hops up on the table to inflate them.

"This look even to you, pet?" hollers Spike once one end of the banner is nailed up, holding the other at what he hopes is a parallel height.

"Yep. Stamp of approval," puffs Dawn, tying off her first balloon. Her cheeks already hurt from the effort, so she picks up the thin notebook and lazily thumbs to the last page with writing on it. "Hmm. 'Tarnis, twelfth century, one of the founders of the monks of the order of Dagon... their sole purpose appears to have been as protectors of the key'."

Spike's heart and stomach seem to drop down into his boots, and he barely feels the hammer slip and pound his index finger instead of the nail. _Oh God... Watcher was stupid enough to copy down that crap? An' leave it out in the open where anyone could find it?!_

Covering his sudden panic, Spike hops down from the chair, traipses over to Dawn, and scoffs nervously at the notes. "Brown-robe types are always protectin' somethin'. It's the only way they can justify givin' up girls. Sure you should be readin' Giles's diary, sweets? Might have some nasty-ol'-man thoughts."

"Ew. Giles is way too British and proper to be slimy like that. This is all just cool research-y stuff that they never let me know about. Get back to work."

"What am I, your soddin' indentured servant?!" He glances over her shoulder at the compact cursive scrawls. "Where'd he learn to write so small, from a fruit fly? Pro'ly hurt your eyes, Niblet, readin' that rubbish in the dark."

She ignores him, still reciting. "'The key is not described in any known literature, but all research indicates an energy matrix vibrating at a dimensional frequency beyond normal human perception. Only those outside reality can see the key's true nature'." She squints at the page, then looks up at Spike. "_Outside reality?_ What's that mean?"

"Uh... second-sight blokes, mostly. Or even just your run-of-the-mill lunatics. Oi!" he reaches out suddenly and tugs the notebook out of Dawn's loose fingers as a flash of revelation and concern crosses her face. Flipping idly through random pages, Spike forces out a chuckle. "Blah, blah, blah... Good Lord, Giles writes as dull as he talks, doesn't he? C'mon, Niblet, let's put this rubbish away and put up all our own rubbish."

"But..."

"You keep your perky lil' nose out'a where it don't belong, you hear me?" he orders, voice ratcheting up in seriousness. "Or I'll drag you back home right now and tell Mum and Buffy exactly what you've been up to."

"No! Fine! I'll stop reading it! I'll decorate!"

"Atta girl, Bit." He stomps back over to the counter, shoves Giles's notes into the drawer beneath the cash register, and hops back up on the chair to finish driving in the nail. "Get the other sign ready, will ya?"

Seething slightly, Dawn retrieves the larger banner from her box, unfolds it, and flicks away a few spots where the glitter glue had escaped the letters she'd outlined. Leaving the long paper by the ladder to the 'Restricted Section', she gathers more handfuls of butter-mints and confetti and festoons Tara's table and a few merchandise displays.

"Oh, I see how this is, makin' me do all the hard labor."

"You're the _big bad_, after all," she smirks.

Humming _God Save the Queen_, he pinches a few more nails between his lips and clambers up the ladder, sign in hand. "Where's this 'un go?"

"Uh... up there, left of the ladder..."

Seizing her chance while his back is turned and attention drawn elsewhere, Dawn reaches over the counter, pulls the drawer open, regains possession of the notebook, and stuffs it in her nearly-empty box, under the packaging residue from the balloons, mints, and confetti.

"This one straight yet?"

"Yeah. Sure. Looks good," she replies curtly, skipping back over to the main glass display and adorning statuettes with colored paper.

"Don't you dare blame me if Demon-gal makes you sweep up every bloody bit of that litter," he mumbles forty minutes later, coat collar tucked up around his ears as he escorts Dawn back to 1630 Revello, his skin prickling as the eastern sky fades from azure to pink.

"Oh, I won't. I'm gonna take credit for the _whole_ thing!"

"Fine by me. Your head okay? Not gonna spin around and explode from all those balloons?"

"Nope. Head still on."

"Well, you just scoot up to bed, try to grab another twenty winks or so before you gotta be up for school."

"Okay... and thanks, Spike. I couldn't have done it without you," she smiles, quickly hugging him around the waist as they reach the back porch.

"An' don't you forget it," he grins, dog-tired and soon-to-be sunburnt if he doesn't seek underground shelter soon. "Toddle off, then, Niblet."

He waits just long enough for her to peer through the kitchen window and check that the room within is empty, creep inside, and shut the back door behind her before he takes off at a brisk stride down the street to the nearest manhole, then ducks down into the sewers to avoid the rising sun, muttering tiredly.

"Seven o'clock... Seven! Would've been her ruddy fault if I'd flambéed. Silly lil' bit... an' now she'll pro'ly fall asleep at school and get herself in a heap of trouble. Uggh. Me an' my stupid Summers-girls soft spot."

Moving robotically through the familiar fastest route between Buffy's house and his own dwelling, he soon unlocks the sewer entrance to his lower level and teeters inside, shoving it shut behind him. Cautious this time, he flicks out his lighter and clicks the flame to life, glancing surreptitiously into the cavern's corners before he's reassured he's truly alone this time. Only one more thing to do before he succumbs to slumber himself.

Stepping over to the phone on his bedside dresser, Spike kicks off his boots and shrugs his duster off his shoulders. He taps out the familiar seven numbers, then hooks the phone between his bony shoulder and his ear as he continues undressing.

"Joyce Summers speaking."

"Hey, Mum, it's Spike... didn't wake you, did I?"

"Oh, no, I just came downstairs to get breakfast ready for Dawn. Anything wrong?"

"No, nothin' wrong... just have a little question, is all."

"Ask away," Joyce replies, and in her cheery voice is the loving smile that always grips Spike's heart, reminding him of another lovely lady... another mum, from another life.

"I just... just wanted to know... what are Buffy's favorite flowers?"

* * *

_To be continued..._

_A/N: Yeah, it got long again, and I wanted to give you all something since I promised my faithful reviewers a prompt update. Part two of "Blood Ties" will be less dialogue-heavy and more action-packed. Please review!_


	19. Chapter 19: Bloody Birthday

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: No, I didn't disappear. I just had some tough IRL curveballs that totally stunted my creativity this week. Sorry for the longer update wait. Here's the first half of what would have been the next chapter, but I just got a cool idea for the second half and I want to do it justice, so it should be up later this weekend.

Thanks CailinRua, TieDyeJackson, Lacey Cordelle, HaleKent, Secret Slayer, and missgwen33, and Spike Is The BIG BAD for reviewing, and ZombieKillerLevi for your awesome PM! =) Feedback is always appreciated! Also abundant thanks to anyone who voted for me in the recent _Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards_. If I won anything in round 28, I'll be sure to share if/when I find out anything.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "Blood Ties", both direct and altered quotes. Also a quote from "Initiative" and "Bargaining pt 1".

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The night before her birthday, Buffy tells the Scooby Gang that Dawn is the Key. Dawn press-gangs Spike into helping her decorate the magic shop, but steals Giles's pad of notes for further nosiness._

* * *

Chapter 19: Bloody Birthday

_Okay_, Buffy admits inside her head as she assesses the mound of presents spilling over the coffee table in her living room_, maybe this party thing isn't such a travesty after all_.

"Prezzies!" she cheers to the delight of her mother, sister, and the surrounding Scoobies.

"See, just what you needed," Willow grins, blowing tiny bubbles from a party-favor bottle.

"You are very, very wise," nods the Slayer repentently. "Now gimme, gimme, gimme!"

Smiling warmly, Tara hands Buffy the first of the gifts, and wrapping paper and ribbon soon decorate the floor instead.

"Ooh!" Anya squeals impatiently, rubbing her hands together. "This is extremely suspenseful! I want the presents."

Out of the box, Buffy draws a slinky floral-print dress. _Ooh, wonder what Spike will think_...

"Ohh... it's so beautiful. Thank you, guys," she beams up at Willow and Tara.

"Well, we thought you'd gets lots of crossbows, other kill-y stuff," Tara says, clearly thrilled at her chosen present's positive reception.

"So we figured less kill-y, more frilly!" gushes Willow with another puff of soap bubbles.

Anya – subtlety-lacking as always – gently tugs the dress out of Buffy's hands and fawns over it. "Oh, it's just so lovely! Oh, I wish it was mine!" Off the skeptical stares she receives from everyone else, she reluctantly puts down the dress. "Like you all weren't thinking the same thing," she mutters.

"I'm fairly certain I wasn't," chuckles Giles, before nudging Xander. "I've got one just like it at home."

"Here, open mine," insists Dawn, handing over a present to her sister.

"It's not gonna explode, is it?"

"No," mumbles Dawn, slightly pink. "I didn't _mean_ for that balloon to get stuck right under an open candle flame."

"Well, luckily we put out the fire before any customers noticed," Willow grins, squeezing Tara's hand with the one that isn't holding the bottle of bubble-blowing fluid.

"But I expect you at the shop right after school tomorrow to help dispose of all that confetti, Dawn," says Giles, receiving a grumpy sigh as the only response from the teenager.

Buffy finally gets the packaging off Dawn's present, which turns out to be a photo frame decorated with seashells. The picture within shows herself and Dawn embracing and smiling on a beach.

"It's from when we visited Dad that summer in San Diego," Dawn shrugs, waiting for any expression besides somber contemplation to cross her older sister's face. "I put the shells on myself. We picked them off the beach."

"I remember," Buffy murmurs, gazing thoughtfully at the picture of her younger self and a correspondingly childlike Dawn – blissful, untroubled... normal. _How could it all be false memories?_

"Well, geez," Dawn huffs at the brutally quiet, almost reverent stillness that has filled the Summers living room, "don't get all Movie of the Week. I was just too cheap to buy a real present. I used up all my allowance on the decorations for the Magic Box."

"Thank you, sweetie," Buffy smiles, pulling Dawn forward into a tight hug. Over her shoulder, she meets her mom's gaze, then Giles's. Their faces match, silent and transparent.

_How could she not have really been a part of our lives all that time?_

The rest of the presents are just as Tara and Willow predicted – weapons, books on demons, and a few more socially-acceptable presents from her mom. Joyce and Giles head to the kitchen for cake-serving implements, while the Scoobies clear the coffee table of unwrapped gifts. Taking advantage of the dull moment, Buffy excuses herself, scurries upstairs to her bedroom, and unlocks her window, pushing the sliding glass up a few inches from the bottom of the frame. She isn't quite sure how large a present – or _presents_, as he suggested – to expect from Spike, but surely he can open the window wider if whatever he got her doesn't fit through the opening she's left.

Just when she takes a step back towards her bedroom door, a sound from outside catches Buffy's ear, a low whistle, so faint and shrill she's sure the partiers downstairs are too preoccupied to hear it. Shoving the window open a bit more, Buffy pokes her head through and peers down Revello Drive, now recognizing the whistled tune as the 'Happy Birthday' song. Sure enough, sauntering toward her house is Spike, a golden box under one arm and a splash of colored flowers in the other.

Then, out of nowhere, a black pit bull bounds toward him from a neighbors yard and hurtles into the street, yelping and yowling. It snaps its jaws at Spike's duster and leaps around him, barking territorially.

"Eh! Ger'off! Oi!"

Buffy almost falls out her open window laughing as the massive mutt tackles Spike's leg and hangs on for dear life. The vampire lifts the wrapped present and the flower bouquet high over his head, trying to fend off the dog.

"Get the bloody hell off me! Oi! Down boy! Ger'off!"

"Jeez, sorry mister!" says the neighbor kid, who probably weighs half as much as the pit bull. "Must've heard you whistling."

"Get this mangy beast off'a me!"

Buffy doesn't wait to see if the elementary-school boy can manage to pull his pooch away from William the Bloody's tasty pant leg. Sliding her window shut again and determined to see him in person, she turns and heads back into the upstairs hall, but immediately hears Dawn's raised voice from the living room.

"Oh. Right. Of course. Can't let Dawn hear _anything_. Fine! I'm just gonna go to bed! That way I won't accidently get exposed to, like, _words_!"

"Dawn?" Buffy asks in bewilderment as her sister tears up the stairs and nearly flattens her against the wall of the landing. Storming past the birthday girl, Dawn flees to her room and slams the door shut with a _crash_.

"What happened?" Buffy demands, descending the remaining steps and staring around at the guilty faces in the living room. Joyce and Giles exchange a glance.

"We... we may have been discussing her," the Watcher begins hesitantly.

"Nothing specific, just the fact that we don't... _know_ any specifics," admits Joyce.

"And then the Dawnster heard us whispering too when she came in here and kinda, assumed," Xander shrugs.

"We were talking about sex," insists Anya, and everyone else audibly groans. "Honestly, we talk about sex all the time."

"_You_ talk about sex all the time, honey," Xander points out. "But the thing is, we really were, but Dawnie still took it personally."

Buffy sighs, rubbing her forehead with two fingers. _Again, let's take a look at the recent birthday history, shall we... 17, Angel turns into a monster... 18, Watchers decide that poison and psycho vampire maniacs are fashionable birthday presents... 19, Giles turns into a monster... so why did I even have a hope that this year would be different?_

"Cake?" asks Willow softly, holding up a sliced piece on a place.

"You guys go ahead and start," Buffy mumbles. "I'm... gonna get some fresh air."

"Are you okay, sweetie?" asks Joyce tenderly.

"Yeah, just a little headache. You guys can slay the cake without me."

Stepping through to the kitchen, Buffy opens the back door, slips out, and clicks it shut. As she expected, Spike stands just off the porch, looking only slightly worse for wear after his tussle with the guard dog.

"Hello, Spike."

"Evenin', luv. Happy Birthday."

"Unhappy Birthday so far, party-wise, at least," she murmurs, leaning against the railing.

"Heard a bit of the ruckus. Lil' Bit seemed to think she was the subject of rather a lot of hush-hush talk."

"I knew it would be like this. I knew once I told them all that things would be different... the way they treat her."

"You did what you had to, pet," Spike reassures her. "If you hadn't told the Scoobies 'bout lil' sis not exactly bein' lil' sis, they'd have poured their little hearts into research and figured out all the bother anyway."

"I suppose..."

While they talk softly, Buffy admires the fountain of flowers in Spike's left hand. It's composed of three colors of Oriental lilies – white, lilac-pink, and two with speckled deeper mauve centers – all interspersed with blooms of variegated red-and-pink carnations and dark-red curled ribbons.

"Tried to get just lilies," Spike mumbles, indicating the floral arrangement, "but the infernal flower shop lady kept sayin' carnations were popular for January, birth-flower or somm'it. Wouldn't give me a set without 'em. An' I think this cinnamon-colored frilly rubbish is supposed to represent garnet, January birthstone or whatnot."

"It's beautiful, Spike. How did you know I liked lilies?"

"I have my sources," he grins. "Couple of fine women. Littler one has a nasty habit of orderin' me about. Last name of Summers."

Buffy giggles, reaches a hand out for the flowers, and breathes in their fresh perfume.

"What's in the box?"

"Somethin' you asked me for a while ago... asked if you could trade the poem diary..."

"Chocolates!" Buffy exclaims, immediately switching presents with Spike and pulling off the matching deep red ribbon that encircles the box wrapped with gold paper. Lifting the lid and the guide to all the confectionary delights underneath, she chooses a truffle at random and bites into the gooey cocoa sphere.

"Mmmm. Purrrfect. Try?" she offers him the other half of the truffle. Spike chortles softly.

"No, no, luv. All for you. 'Sides, that one smells like cranberry. Not really my cuppa tea."

"More for me, then. Mmmm! This is amazing! This is _way_ better than that severed arm in a box you sort-of accidently sent me for my seventeenth birthday."

"I did _what_, now?"

"Nevermind," she says merrily, digging into another truffle. Carefully setting the flowers on the porch railing, Spike threads an arm around Buffy and kisses her forehead.

"Just thought... you might like to be treated like a normal woman on her birthday, flowers and candy... kisses from a man who loves you..."

"It's wonderful. You couldn't have made me any happier."

"Music to my ears, Buffy... thought I think I might stick to humming after that half-wit mongrel decided my calf made a perfect chew-toy."

"You're okay, right?"

"Course, pet," he smiles. "Didn't even break the skin."

Resuming the 'Happy Birthday' song – only in a low hum now instead of a whistle – he hugs her gently, lips against her hair. Quickly forgetting the chocolates, Buffy leans into him, feeling the vibrating of his throat against her temple, his cool silent chest under her hands. She slips the lid back on the box and places it on the railing beside the flowers, then tilts her face up to kiss him. His tune dissolves into throaty chuckles, and his hands move firmly to her upper arms, holding tight. But his lips stay soft, cool and intimate, like secrets are passing between their mouths through the kisses that make Buffy want to burst simultaneously into giggles and into song and into very unladylike moans.

_See, luv, _Spike longs to say to her_. I can be gentle. It doesn't have to be frenzied like it seems to be every time we get a lip-full of each other. I can be slow and sweet. I can be a tender lover..._

Buffy's hands slip tighter around his waist, between his duster and the silky fabric of his red over-shirt... and she suddenly realizes how _much_ extra space there seems to be, as though his leather coat has expanded... or Spike has shrunk...

"Spike..." Buffy murmurs, reluctant to part her lips from his.

"Mm?"

"Can I touch you?"

She feels him smile against her mouth. "Course you can, luv. Never need to ask. My answer's always yes."

Drawing back slightly – just enough to hold him at the waist and observe his face – Buffy scrutinizes him. Now that she's paying close attention, his cheekbones look somewhat more angular than usual, his eyes are rimmed with shadows, and his ribs beneath her hands seem sharper. Even when he lifts a hand to absently scratch the hair behind his ear, his fingers are bonier, knuckles more prominent. Buffy's eyes narrow with concern.

"Spike, are you... sick?"

"What?" he asks in surprise. "Course not. Vampire, luv."

"But... you're... you're all thin."

If she notices the flash of mixed emotions that leap across Spike's face, she doesn't call him out on it. _She can tell... she's really lookin' at me... and she doesn't know it's 'cuz of her, 'cuz of those three little words she can't bring herself to say_.

"Better fighter if I'm lighter," he shrugs, knowing he's brushing her off, but unable to admit the impatient and desperate root cause. "Quicker on my feet."

"Oh," she nods, taking the bait but still appearing perplexed. Grasping for straws, Spike pulls her close again and kisses her nose.

"And also 'cuz you make me work so hard to get a chance to kiss you. I sweat it all off."

Giggling as he peppers her face with quick, smacking kisses, Buffy rolls her eyes at his even feebler excuse. "Great. Because every girl wants to hear that she makes her lover sweat."

About to close in on her lips, Spike suddenly pulls back from the kiss, and Buffy blushes, realizing her accidental double entendre. Spike's visage has gone – if possible – even paler than usual, his blue eyes bright and intense.

"Did... you just call _me_ your lover?"

_Bad Buffy. Bad, bad, bad..._

"Well, I... I'm not going to call you my boyfriend. It sounds lame on you, seeing as you're neither a 'boy', nor really a 'friend'..."

"Oi!"

"You're _more_. You're my... confidant. Got-my-back guy. I trust you."

"But..."

"And besides, vampires don't even sweat, well, not normally. It has to be, like, Olympic-level effort, or poison. Don't ever get poisoned."

"But... you said _lover_... it just rolled off your tongue, all natural..." _And it was bloody wonderful. Made my dead heart dance the bleedin' foxtrot_...

"Spike," Buffy whispers, hearing the fervency and longing in his tone, "I... I didn't... it was careless of me, but it didn't... I didn't mean to..."

An almighty horrorstruck scream from inside the house cuts through both of them like a blast of ice water.

"Mom!" Buffy gasps, ripping open the back door and racing into the kitchen, Spike right behind her. Immediately in front of them stand Tara, Willow, and Joyce, foremost of the living room's occupants, all wearing aghast looks.

"Oh! Oh my god!" Tara whispers, staring into the dining room doorway. Buffy and Spike follow her gaze... and what meets their eyes is horrifying enough to make even the vampire's veins run cold.

"Is this blood?" Dawn whispers in a shell-shocked voice, a scarlet stream running from a wound across her inner forearm, the cake-knife held loosely in her other hand.

"Dawn!" cries Buffy.

Movement. Chaos. Spike cuts around Buffy and lunges at Dawn, game-face emerging. Willow and Joyce scream. Buffy remains frozen in the kitchen, unable to even lift a finger, her insides shattering somewhere deep down in whatever internal bank vault 'Trust' is kept. The knife slips out of Dawn's hand and clatters on the floor as Spike kneels before her and closes his mouth over the laceration in her arm.

"Buffy! Stop him!"

She can't even tell which of the girls has said her name, cried out for her help. She can't even remember that she's the Slayer, the only one in all the world who should keep a steady head, should respond with poise and assurance in a demon-related crisis. The only thing penetrating her frozen senses is her vampire, her lover... draining the life out of her sister...

_CRACK!_

Giles clobbers Spike over the head with the fireplace poker, so hard that the metal instrument bends into a L-shape on impact. He crumples to the floor of the dining room, and Giles bends down for the knife. His face is twisted in fury, all Ripper, not a trace of their friendly neighborhood librarian.

Joyce, Willow, and Tara converge on Dawn, but Buffy remains, her knees locked, feet braced in place as though cement concrete has compacted and hardened around her ankles.

"Oh, baby," Joyce whispers through her tears. Dawn just shakes her head, looking from her mom to her own arm to Spike on the floor, trapped by Giles. He's conscious but dazed, human appearance restored, forehead bleeding from a gash over his right eye.

"Dawnie, honey, let's move away from..."

"He... he didn't..." Dawn mumbles, cutting Tara off. Her face is still stiff, teary, and angry... but now shows a hint of surprise.

And then the world seems to flip upside-down yet again as Willow steps out of the way enough for Buffy to see her little sister's arm, and her throat suddenly goes bone-dry. Instead of bite marks around the bleeding gash... there _isn't_ any gash anymore... just a smooth pink line under a sheen of healing saliva.

"Spike..." Buffy breathes, hand flying up to cover her own mouth. "No... Giles... Giles, stop!"

With one knee pinning Spike to the floor, the Watcher drives his fist across Spike's face, his pinkie ring cutting the vampire's lip. Then he lifts the knife blade-up, the wooden handle poised over Spike's heart.

"NO!" Buffy screams, barreling around everyone in the living room and throwing herself on Giles's upraised arm. "Giles, no! He didn't hurt her! Look at Dawn!"

"Buffy, your blind tolerance for this monster has gone on long enough!"

The Watcher, still struggling to drive the wood down into Spike, glances back at the teenager, then double-takes.

"What... oh... oh Good Lord..."

His grip on the knife goes slack – allowing Buffy to hurl it away across the kitchen linoleum – and Giles stands up, staring between Spike and Dawn.

"He... he wasn't attacking her..."

"Conclusion-jumpin' little buggers, aren't you?" Spike coughs, shoving away from Giles and sitting up gingerly. He puts a hand up to his head and winces. "Must've been a wicked cricketer in your day, eh, Gramps? Still got the batsman's knack."

"Sealed..." Willow whispers, the only one of the shocked females in the living room who can manage to say anything.

"You might have told us your plan..." Giles begins, turning a bit red in the face.

"And what?" Spike scoffs with a wince. "Held a session of Parliament while the Lil' Bit bled all over the floor? Knew you lot would pitch a fit if I suggested it, figured why bother arguin' when I could have it done already."

"Th-this is blood, isn't it?" Dawn whimpers, looking to Spike for assurance. "It c-can't be me. I'm not a _key_. I'm not a thing."

"Oh, sweetie, no," Joyce pleads, trying to hug her shaking daughter. "What is this all about?"

"_What am I?_" Dawn insists, almost growling the words out as her eyes spill over with tears. "Am I real? Am I _anything?_"

"Course you are, Niblet," says Spike, struggling up and leaning against the dining room table for support. "You're a human girl. Hundred percent, I swear."

Crying in earnest now, Dawn pulls herself out of her mom's and Tara's arms and flees to Spike, sobbing against his red silk shirt. He places a comforting hand on the back of her head and eyes the Scoobies reprovingly, his own blood dribbling down across his eyebrow. Joyce looks to Buffy, solemn and teary-eyed.

"Um... guys," whispers Buffy, glancing hesitantly at her party guests, "could you... we kind of have to process this..."

"Say no more, Buffs," says Xander, patting Buffy's shoulder as he passes her, heading for the coat rack in the foyer.

"If you need anything..." Willow murmurs into Buffy's ear, hugging her tightly.

"Thanks," nods Buffy, releasing Willow and gently squeezing Tara's hand as she accompanies her girlfriend, following Xander and Anya out of the front door. Giles lingers, his eyes no longer accusatory but still cautious, watching Spike comfort a heartbroken Dawn.

"Perhaps I should stay. Just in case..."

"This is a family thing," Buffy says, the barest hint of stiffness in her tone of voice. "We should deal with this."

"Very well." His gaze flickers to Spike once more, perhaps questioning if he will remain for the _family_ thing. "I... um, I'm so terribly sorry about your head..."

"Eh, false apology doesn't suit you, Rupes," Spike shrugs with a half-smile. "No harm done, once I stop blinkin' blood out of my eye."

Nodding acceptingly, Giles exits, and Buffy gently shuts the door.

"Mom, can you take Dawnie upstairs? I'll just get Spike cleaned up with the first aid kit downstairs and then come up."

"Of course," Joyce murmurs, moving forward to pry Dawn off Spike. The wet-faced teenager grips the front of his shirt for just an extra moment, then surrenders to her mom's arms and allows herself to be escorted up to her room.

"Coming?" says Buffy, moving into the hall.

"Lead the way, luv."

Wobbling slightly, he follows her down the basement stairs and sits on the bottommost step while she rinses a cloth in the sink by the washer and dryer

"What is it 'bout me that makes your parents and guardians want to stove in my head?" he winces when she brings the moist rag over and scrubs at the cut Giles had made with the poker. "Jealousy of my undyin' good looks?"

"Probably," she mutters, mopping his face clean. The large forehead mark has already started clotting, and the gash to his lip is barely visible.

Sensing her meloncholy, he takes her rag-holding hand in both his own and pulls her onto the step beside him.

"Hey... it couldn't be helped, pet. Niblet was bound to find out eventually. Just delayin' the inevitable. Shame it had to happen today, though, birthday and all."

"How _did_ she find out?" Buffy huffs, pouting at the floor. To her surprise, Spike bites his lip guiltily.

"I... I helped her... last night, with the garish shop decorations. Stupid Watcher left that bleedin' notebook lyin' about on the counter. As soon as I caught the Bit lookin' at it, I told her sharpish to leave it be. She must've snuck it back out when I was hangin' the sign or somm'it. Must've read about her origin, saw it all spelled out in his microscopic writin', all bland and scientific-soundin'... poor Platlet."

Buffy curls into him, her face against his cool neck, and his arms come around her in a gentle embrace.

"Spike, I'm so sorry... if I'd realized what you were doing, I could have held Giles off. I just... I just saw..."

"You saw me rushin' at the Niblet, all fangy and _grr_... drew the same conclusion as the rest?"

"I should have trusted you."

"It's alright, luv. I'm not mad, not a bit. Now me and my black eye might not agree on everythin'..."

"Is there any way I could just kiss and make it better? I know I don't have super-spit."

"_Super-spit_," Spike repeats disparagingly. "C'mere, my silly, impossible love..."

* * *

They exchange kisses in the darkness of the cool basement for another minute, then return to the main level of the house. As Buffy heads up to Dawn's room, Spike slips out the back door – pausing briefly to place Buffy's flowers and box of chocolates on the kitchen island before he walks solemnly down Revello Drive, skirting around the home of the overbearing guard dog.

Reaching his crypt, he strips down and crawls into bed, but sleep eludes him, coming and going in hour-long bursts that leave him even more weary than before. Finally losing patience at six in the morning, he dresses again and strolls into the sewers, emerging from a manhole across the street from the Magic Box. He skirts the shadows to avoid the nearly risen sun and enters through the back by the training room. It's already unlocked, and sure enough, Anya and Giles are there, preparing the shop for opening.

"Mornin'," Spike mutters, ignoring both of their startled noises as he appears, just making his way to the utility closet and extracting a small brush and dustpan.

"Spike? What are you doing here?" demands Giles, his tone somewhat less harsh than he usually uses toward the vampire.

"If you're here to buy anything, we don't technically open until nine," Anya informs him.

"Just thought I'd help straighten up the mess Niblet and I made early yesterday morning," he shrugs, attacking a pile of confetti that has fallen off Tara's card-reading table.

"She makes a very pretty little girl," Anya blurts out, and Spike gives a dry chuckle.

"That she does."

"One moment... _You_ helped Dawn decorate?" Giles asks in astonishment.

"It couldn't be helped. She showed up in my crypt at five in the morning, wanted to break in and spruce up the place for big sis, so yeah, I went with her. Knew she'd do it anyhow, just thought she'd be safer with Big Bad lookin' over her shoulder."

"So you were here and yet you didn't stop her from discovering..."

"You better not be tryin' to pin this bloody mess on _me_, Watcher," Spike grumbles, brandishing the handheld brush in Giles's direction. "I'm not the one who _wrote down_ the blarney and then left it strewn about the place where anyone off the bleedin' street could've picked it up an' read it. Ever thought about what might've happened if those maggoty minion things that are always followin' us about had broken in here and stolen it? Taken it right to their featherbrained hellgoddess?"

Giles's face turns ashen, his chin dropping to meet the collar of his fleece jacket.

"Yeah, thought you hadn't," Spike scoffs. He scoops up the last of the confetti in that area, dumps it in the bin beside the counter, and moves to another part of the room. Now paranoid, Giles picks up the Book of Tarnis from the underlit table and holds it protectively in both hands.

"Still, if you'd removed it from her reach..."

"I _tried!_" Spike snarls, truly exasperated now. He needs all his self-restraint not to chuck the brush and dustpan at the Watcher, or snatch the book from him and bash _him_ over the head, see how _he_ likes it. "I took the darned notebook from her and shoved it in the drawer by the register, and the stubborn Bit _still_ got it out the moment my back was turned!"

"You don't think she took _money_ too, do you?" Anya asks in sudden panic, running over to the cash register and pulling it open with a jangle. "Oh, good! Just as I left it!"

"You think I _wanted_ the Niblet to find out that way?" says Spike, still fixing Giles with a mighty glare. "To learn out'a books and papers that she's some kind of mystical glowy key thing? Knew we couldn't keep the truth from her forever, a'course, but hoped it'd be Buffy an' Mum tellin' her when they thought the time was right. Guess the Powers That Be had other plans, but still doesn't mean you have the right to try to make yourself feel better with a round of Kick The Spike."

Ending on a derisive growl, he hefts another shower of confetti from the dustpan into the garbage bag. He scurries up the ladder to the forbidden books and tugs the sign free from its tiny nails, then does the same with the banner over the countertop.

"Any other mess from Niblet's bit o' fun, you can bloody-well clean it yourself," he says gruffly, hiking his duster over his head and charging out into the morning sunshine at a run. Giles and Anya stare after him until his dark figure ducks back into a manhole, then, with guilty sighs, they continue readying the inventory.

* * *

_A/N: Please review! Sorry this one's unusually short. Final part of "Blood Ties" (with a bit of "Crush" thrown in) will be up soon._

_I did some brief internet research on flower color symbolism and found out that variegated carnations like the ones I have Spike give to Buffy actually stand for "regret that a love cannot be shared". So even with the flowers, Spike was trying to tell her how he felt. :) Ah, symbolism..._


	20. Chapter 20: Keyed Up

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for all your reviews! Feedback is always appreciated! Abundant thanks to anyone who voted for me in the recent _Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards_. Still haven't heard anything yet.

**Smut warning**! Brief and non-graphic, end of chapter. Naughtiest thing so far in this story, I think!

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "Blood Ties" and "Crush", both direct and altered quotes.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Bad Birthday-Luck Fairy strikes Buffy again, and Dawn cuts herself in the middle of Buffy's party. Spike uses his super-spit powers, then cleans up the confetti in the Magic Box and gives Giles a stern talking-to for leaving important notes and books lying around._

* * *

Chapter 20: Keyed Up

In the middle of the afternoon, Buffy storms inside the Magic Box, sisterly protectiveness on high gear. Willow, Xander, and Tara trail in behind her, and all four of them approach the counter where Giles and Anya stand sorting receipts. At the moment, no customers are wandering the aisles, so Buffy speaks freely.

"Have we found anything new?"

"We're looking," Giles replies gently, "but..."

"We need answers, Giles. We need to find out everything we can about the key. What it's for, who created it..."

"And why Glory has a big-girl-god-jones for it," adds Xander helpfully.

"No, this isn't about her," Buffy clarifies, shaking her head at Xander's suggestion. "It's about Dawn. She deserves to know where she came from. She needs to know. Or... or it's just gonna eat away at her."

"Buffy..." Giles's tone is tentative, and Buffy crosses her arms in uneasy anticipation. "Are you... aware... that Spike accompanied Dawn here yesterday, and that he –"

"He what, Giles?" she interrupts angrily, realizing where his train of thought is headed. "He tried to hide a certain notebook belonging to a certain Watcher so that a certain Slayer's sister wouldn't see it? He stayed with her when she decided to wander the town at five in the morning? Yeah, Giles, tell me more. Tell me more crap to try to turn me against Spike."

The air in the Magic Box goes deathly quiet, a frozen feeling that only dissipates the slightest bit when the bell over the front door rings.

"Customers," Anya mumbles, greatly subdued from her usual enthusiasm at the arrival of someone likely to give her their money. She tilts her head at all of them, suggesting they move away from the register if the tense conversation is to continue. With Willow and Tara on either side of her, Buffy wanders over to the main table and slumps onto the bench.

"Mom told me Dawn almost refused to go to school this morning," she sighs. " '_Blobs of energy don't need an education,_' according to her. She only went because Mom got all... _mom_-ish, offered to make her favorite soup. Dawn said Mom wasn't really her mother and then she ran out."

"Oh, honey," whispers Tara. "M-m-maybe we could just talk to her, t-t-tell her we don't see her any d-differently."

"Don't you?" Buffy responds desolately. "She's not _just_ my sister. She's... something we know next to nothing about."

"Buffy, I know it's n-not quite the same, but I r-really think I could help Dawnie. R-remember, I grew up thinking I was p-part demon, that I was s-something evil."

"Not all demons are evil," Anya reminds them, wandering over as Giles explains differences in meditation crystals to an intrigued customer.

"Right, but I was just going off what my family t-told me, that I w-was wicked and d-dangerous, and I couldn't d-do anything about it except w-wait until my twentieth birthday."

"And it turned out to be a big load of phooey!" says Willow firmly, and Buffy smiles for the first time since entering the Magic Box.

"Thanks, Tara. Maybe it would be good for you to talk to Dawn, but I don't want to crowd her. Tonight it should just be me and Mom with her, but I'll tell her you want to talk."

"Want us to patrol for you, Buffster?" asks Xander warmly. "I've been working on my one-handed axing skills."

"No, I'll just go out later, and if I need to turn in early, Spike will handle it."

Xander swallows any argument that comes to his mind, hops up as the phone rings, and hurries to the counter to assist Giles and Anya.

"Magic Box," he says brightly. "Your one stop spot to... Oh, hi, Joyce. Oh..."

"Mom's calling?" demands Buffy, joining him as soon as she hears who's on the other line. Xander solemnly hands over the phone, and Buffy holds it to her ear. "Mom, what –?"

"Dawn's missing!" cries Mrs. Summers, so loudly that Buffy cringes away from the earpiece. "Her school called today to tell me she was _suspended_. She yelled at a teacher and never came to class after lunch! Oh, Buffy, she's gone! Dawn's gone!"

* * *

_Poke_. _Poke_.

Spike keeps his eyes shut, trying to ignore the odd prodding he feels against his bare chest. He turns his head to the other side and drapes one arm over his face. _Maybe the blasted ceiling's leakin'. Perfect. Every time I doze off there's always somethin'_...

"Spike? Good grief, you sleep like you're dead. Which, I guess you are."

"NIBLET!"

Startled awake and utterly horrorstruck, Spike seizes two handfuls of his thin white sheet and yanks them up to his armpits, covering as much of his naked body as possible. Dawn stands right beside his bed, the poking instrument now revealed to be her finger.

"Dawn!" he gasps, still wrestling with the wrinkly sheets. "Why the hell do you keep doin' this to me?"

"Sorry," she giggles, clearly insincere in her apology.

"Dawn... _I'm not wearin' anythin'_," he hisses in a stage whisper, face aghast.

"I know. I didn't see anything... well, I kinda saw the side of your ass, but nothing else! Promise!"

Spluttering, Spike scoots as far across the bed away from Dawn as he can manage, sheets shielding him.

"What are you doin' here lurkin' about?" he demands, glancing around for clothes.

"I'm not lurking. I'm looking. I forgot that you'd probably be asleep, daylight and all."

"Does Buffy know you're here?"

Dawn frowns and eyes her own sneakers grumpily. "Yeah, right. She has to keep an eye on her oh-so-important key, doesn't she?"

"Hey. You know she doesn't think of you like that, Niblet," Spike says firmly. "You're her sister. She cares for you, loves you, which is a one-up on me, for one thing. You've got to go home."

"I don't feel like it right now."

"Well, you can't bloody-well stay here."

"Why not?" Dawn demands.

"Because I've got no clothes on! And you're a child and shouldn't be in a man's bedroom!"

"I'm not a child," she pouts, crossing her arms over her chest. "I'm not even human. Not originally."

Spike sighs and clunks his head back against the headboard. "Yeah, well, originally I _was_. I got over it. Doesn't seem to me it matters very much how you start out."

"That's smart. I get that." She sits down on the stone slab that acts as a landing for the ladder. "I like how you talk to me like I can understand things. Everyone else is being all... twitchy and secretive."

"They're just tryin' to keep you safe, I expect," Spike shrugs. "Look, Niblet, I know you're upset 'bout what you read in Ol' Watcher's notes, but you don't... that stuff doesn't have to define you. You're still Dawnie Summers, nothin' could change that."

She smiles, hugging her own knees. "Thanks, Spike."

"But what _does_ need to change is you sneakin' around to my place and givin' me the jump when I least expect it," he insists. "If you refuse to go home now, need time to clear your little head, whatever, fine, but you can't just keep burstin' in on me with no bloody warning."

"So, you're not going to make me leave?" she asks cheerfully.

Spike lets out all the air in his lungs with an exasperated groan. "Fine. You can stay 'till it's dark out, then I'll walk you back. Just lemme get dressed, a'right? Chivy on up the ladder and make yourself at home, I s'pose."

Almost squealing with delight, Dawn scampers back up the steps to the main level of the crypt, and Spike hears the television being turned on.

"Unbelievable," he mutters, pulling his covers off and wrapping them around his waist as he stands. He glances up the steps to make sure he's completely out of Dawn's line of vision, then he tosses the sheet back onto his bed and yanks on his jeans. Once he's also rapidly garbed in his shirt, belt, shoes, and duster, he picks up his phone and dials the Magic Box.

"You've reached the Magic Box, your one stop spot to shop..."

"It's me, Red," he gently interrupts before she launches through the whole tag line.

"Oh, hiya Spike," says Willow. "We're kinda panicky over here. Dawn's gone missing, and Buffy's just about to leave to go look for her –"

"Stop her! Call her back," he pleads. "Niblet's here with me."

"She is? Oh, that's... weirdly good." Willow's voice retreats as she turns away from the phone. "Hey, Buffy, it's Spike! He's got Dawn!"

Anticipating a yell of relief, Spike sits down on the edge of his rumpled bed and holds the phone gingerly away from his ear as he hears Buffy's voice grow closer on the other end of the line.

"Spike! Where is she? How did you find her?"

"It's alright, luv. She's safe with me. Niblet came over to my crypt because of you all makin' shifty eyes at her."

"Oh my god, I'm gonna kill her! Does she have any idea how worried we've been?" Buffy gripes, partly relieved but mainly provoked into anger. "Mom got a call from her school saying Dawn's been suspended, that she has a crap-ton of absences, that she cussed out a teacher, that her grades suck..."

"Buffy!" Spike shouts over her whingeing. "Take a breather for three bloody seconds, and tell me that when _you_ found out you were the Slayer, your grades didn't go a little sideways too."

A guilty silence greets him, aside from scuffling background noise in the shop.

"Not too different with Dawnie, luv," he continues, sweetly this time. "Platlet just needs some time to adjust. Little help from me an' her grades'll be fine, so don't let that wind you up."

"Okay," Buffy replies, somewhat appeased. "Have you called Mom yet to tell her Dawn's with you?"

"Not yet. Rang you up first. I only called 'cuz I knew you'd be frettin'. Lil' Bit doesn't want to come home at the moment, so I told her I'd put up with her for a short while, take her home after sundown. You've got to promise you and the Scoobies won't come chargin' over here and try convincin' her to leave."

"But –"

"I agreed, pet. Gotta keep my word. You tell Mum that Niblet's safe with me. Only a couple hours 'till dark anyhow."

Buffy exhales, biting down irritation at her sister's behavior. "Okay, I guess. Sorry she's being such a bother."

"No trouble, luv. 'Till tonight, then."

"Bye."

Spike sets down the phone and kneads his forehead with the knuckles of one hand, trying to rub away the now familiar insomnia-induced headache.

"That was Buffy, wasn't it?" asks Dawn morosely, halfway descending the ladder.

"Yeah, it was, an' before you blow a gasket at me, I told her to keep herself and her sidekicks out of our way for a bit. She agreed you could hang about with me until sunset."

"Thanks, Spike," the teenager smiles, watching him stand and approach the ladder. "So..." she inquires as they head to the top level and hunker down in front of the TV, "do you know any good stories?"

* * *

"And the lady just invited you in?" whispers Dawn, now seated cross-legged in front of Spike. No light emanates through the barred windows of the crypt, the only illumination a lantern placed between the two of them.

"Well, I had hubby by the throat, didn't I?" Spike replies, reining in a smirk at how much Dawn is hanging on his every word. "Promised her he'd live if she gave me the invite."

"And did you? Let him live?"

"What do you think?" he murmurs, raising a brow. Dawn swallows, frowning. "Too much for you?"

"No! Keep going."

"And I kill 'em," he breathes softly, staring into her eyes. "Right quick, the whole lot. But... there's someone missing. Supposed to be... this little girl. So, I get _real_ quiet..." He glances at the ceiling, acting it out, remembering the course of events like it was yesterday. "And I hear this tiny noise coming from the coal bin. This little sigh. So I listened harder... it's very, very quiet..."

Dawn's blue eyes are huge, and Spike suddenly remembers the similarly-wide frightened eyes of the child he'd found in the coal bin... the seven-year-old girl he'd caught, stolen away from her blood-drenched home, and delivered dutifully to his awaiting sire... a little living dolly, with whom Drusilla had quickly grown bored.

Strange how he can no longer look back on those 'glory days' of his vampire youth with satisfaction or pride. He'd never taunted or tortured as he'd killed, like Angelus did. The deaths themselves had been quick and clean, but not fast enough to prevent invoking utter terror in the faces of those who were left as he'd carved through the family one by one. And the tiny crying girl last of all...

"Spike?" Dawn urges, pulling him back to the present. Spike bites the inside of his cheek, thinking rapidly.

"Right. Yeah. So, uh, I knew the girl was in the coal bin. So... I rip it open, very violent, haul her out of there... and... and then I give her to a good family in a nice home, where they're never ever mean to her, and don't lock her in the coal bin.

"What? That's so lame!" scoffs Dawn.

"Yeah, well, reckon it's 'bout time to take you home."

"Awww!"

"Hey now! No griping from you, Niblet, or I'll change my mind an' not stop off for ice cream on our way back," he threatens good-naturedly.

Eyes sparking with delight, Dawn pantomimes zipping her lips shut and tossing the key over her shoulder. Grinning at her, Spike moseys over to his fridge, extracts a jar of pig's blood, sniffs it cautiously, and pours half of it into a ceramic mug. He pops the mug in the microwave as Dawn – now carrying her coat, ready to leave – approaches. When the machine beeps its completion, Spike rolls his neck, shrugging forth his demon visage in hopes of getting slightly more enjoyment out of the mediocre blood. Dawn watches him contemplatively, her gaze on his crinkled forehead and golden eyes.

"Thanks, Spike. For... yesterday." She looks down at her own right arm, where the only remaining trace of her self-inflicted cut is the faintest pale pink line. "Sorry Giles whacked you."

"I'm alright, Niblet. Knew the instant I decided to do it that there'd be an uproar. 'Pology accepted."

He removes the heated blood from the microwave and – after checking the scent once more for good measure – tips back his head.

"So... are you and Buffy dating yet?" asks Dawn, immediately sending Spike into a choking gag.

"Blimey, Niblet! Why'd you have to wait until I was drinkin' to ask me somm'it like that?" he demands in shock, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.

"Didn't mean to. It's just... you're awesome. _Way_ awesomer than stupid Riley. You've got cool hair and you wear cool leather coats and stuff. And you don't treat me like an alien, so I like hanging with you and wish you were around more, which would probably happen if you and Buffy were a couple. I root for you. I ship you and Buffy."

"You what? I don't speak teenage blather."

"Point is, you and Buffy would be great together. You've both got this '_I'm the baddest badass that ever there was'_ going on."

"Hey, thought I told you to keep a civil tongue, not go repeatin' language like I use," he admonishes, pointing his empty mug in her direction before carrying it across the crypt to his makeshift sink. "If Mumsie heard you, she'd have my head on a silver platter, 'specially after what I heard happened at school today."

"You're avoiding my question! Are you Buffy's boyfriend yet or not?"

Spike sighs, half-growling in vexation. "You talked to Buffy about this? Told her you're all for me bein' her beau?"

"I did a while ago, back when I showed her the poem you gave her. Not since then. I'm just pretty sure she doesn't have any _other_ new boyfriend, and I want you to seize the moment! If you don't do something, for all we know she could start dating Ben!"

"Who the hell's Ben?" Spike demands, neck tensing instinctively. "Ben who?"

"Ben from the hospital," Dawn explains. "Intern guy. He was really nice during Mom's tests and surgery and stuff."

"Well... she better not have a thing goin' with Ben-the-intern-guy," he snarls. "That's all I'll say for now. Buffy decides to tell you what she wants with me, then a'right. 'Till then –"

"So there _is_ something!" Dawn shouts in triumph. "Are you two making out? Is that why she's been so fired up about patrolling, 'cuz she gets to see you?"

Spike tries to ignore the flare of pride that shoots through him on hearing this confirmation from Dawn – that Buffy truly does enjoy his presence, fighting alongside him, partners – but he hides his glee, shrugging his duster back onto his shoulders and strolling toward the crypt door.

"If you're this keyed-up _before_ havin' ice cream, no way in hell is this a good plan," he grins at her. To his surprise, Dawn frowns sharply, then gives a little half-hearted snicker.

"Keyed-up," she mumbles. "You made a joke... 'cuz I'm the key."

"Aw, Niblet, I didn't mean it like that. Wasn't havin' a laugh at your expense. Slip of the tongue, that's all."

Greatly subdued, Dawn follows Spike out of the crypt. He sets an arm protectively and comfortingly around her shoulders as they trek through the darkened streets of Sunnydale to the ice-cream parlor a few blocks from the inactive Bronze, arriving just before it closes. Spike lets her go crazy, piling sprinkles, chopped nuts, and candies on her brimming chocolate-dipped cone. After paying, he proactively snags a couple extra napkins, handing them to Dawn as he opens the door for her. She silently eats away at the bountiful cone all the way to Revello Drive, polishing it off just before they turn down the driveway to the Summers house.

"Thanks, Spike. I had fun, and the ice cream was über-yummy."

"You just wanted a break from routine is all. A little rebellion's healthy, I s'pose. Builds character. Just don't make a habit of it, or I'll have to answer to your mum. Bet she could rival the Spanish Inquisition if she set her mind to it."

Glad to see a smile back on the girl's face, Spike reaches for the front door and turns the handle. He glances inside to see Buffy and Joyce sitting on the sofa in the living room, as yet unaware of their arrival but clearly already discussing Dawn.

"That's your answer?" replies Mrs. Summers to whatever Buffy has just proposed. "Just leave her alone and hope everything works itself out?"

"No, but if I were her, I'd want a bit of time right now," Buffy shrugs at her mom. "I wouldn't want my mother and my sister coming at me from all sides."

"We can't ignore her behavior. Absences, D's and F's... Buffy, she yelled at a teacher. The things she said... I mean she's never used language like that."

"She probably feels like she can say or do anything right now," says Buffy glibly, her back to the foyer as Spike and Dawn enter. "She's not real. We're not her family. We don't even know what she _is_."

"Buffy," Spike mutters, trying to warn her, but the horrified anger on Dawn's face reveals she's heard every word.

Shocked tears in her eyes, Dawn storms upstairs into her room. Joyce and Buffy jump to their feet as they hear both Dawn's bedroom door and the front door slam, the later by Spike.

"Just swell," he snorts, shaking his head at Buffy. "Bloody genius. Talk about Dawnie like she's a _thing_. Yeah, that'll endear you to her right off. Great bleedin' plan, luv."

"I'm not!" Buffy insists, staring up the stairs after Dawn. "I'm just saying that's probably how she _feels_."

"Well, then we have to show her that it isn't true," Joyce says determinedly, resuming her seat with her daughter. "She needs to know that she's still a part of this family and that we love her."

"It's not that simple," Buffy disagrees. "We're not going to be able to fix this with a hug and a kiss and a bowl of soup! Dawn needs to know where she came from. She needs _real_ answers."

"Think she needs her _sister_ more than all that, pet," interjects Spike, leaning against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest. "Needs _Buffy_, not the Slayer with her answers."

"The _Slayer_ is the only thing standing between Dawn and this god from the bitch dimension that wants to shove her in some kind of lock and give her a good twirl!" retorts Buffy, anger rising. "I should be out there, doing my job –"

"Hold up... you smell that, luv?"

The instant after Spike's question, a shrill screeching floods the house, its origin indeterminate. Buffy and Joyce leap up from the couch.

"Oh my god, Glory. It's Willow's spell!" gasps Buffy, rushing toward the stairs.

"Wait. It's not Glory..."

"It's fire!" Spike snarls, tearing up the steps and kicking in Dawn's bedroom door. "Dawn!"

The floor is littered with dozens of shredded diaries – evidence of the delusion of Dawn's artificially contrived life – their torn pages and ripped covers spilling around the flaming wastebasket. Half of the room's posters are torn off the walls, and the smoke detector on the ceiling blares insistently.

"Dammit!" cries Buffy, right on Spike's heels as he grabs a blanket off Dawn's bed and smothers the flames. Mrs. Summers appears behind Buffy, staring past the two of them.

"Buffy..."

"No! Mom, she could've burned the house down."

"Buffy," Joyce repeats, voice stricken. "She's gone."

All three of them lift their gazes to the open bedroom window, the curtain fluttering, tugged by a night breeze.

* * *

A round of desperate phone calls summons all the Scoobies to the Magic Box, and Spike and Buffy are the last to arrive, having thoroughly swept all the streets between Revello and the shop for any sign of Dawn. He watches the panic and misery increasing on his Slayer's face, but can think of nothing to say to reassure her.

"Anything?" she begs as they approach the door to the Magic Box.

"Too much smoke, covered up her scent," Spike mutters regretfully. Opening the shop door, he follows her inside and remains pacing silently as she explains the situation.

"Willow's warning spell wasn't tripped? You're sure?" Giles inquires after a minute.

"It wasn't Glory," confirms Buffy. "Dawn heard... I said some things that I probably shouldn't have... and she was hurt by them. She tore up her room... she burned all her diaries..."

"_The Dawnmeister Chronicles_?" Xander asks, stunned.

"She's been keeping those since..." Willow begins, but her voice trails away to nothing when she realizes the maximum amount of time that Dawn could _actually_ have been writing in her diaries is only six months. "I mean..."

"Since she was seven," says Buffy. "I remember too, Will."

She stands in the center of the shop, drawing up battle plans. "We have to find her, fast, before Glory or the Knights of Hack-n-Slash figure out what... _who_ she really is. Mom's gonna stay at home in case she shows up. I figure we split up and sweep the city. Anya, will you stay here in case she circles back here? Xander, Giles, you guys take the center of town. Willow, Tara, west side. Spike, you and I'll get the east side. We'll all meet back up in Restfield Cemetery in an hour."

"Maybe if w-we figure out where she'd run to," suggests Tara as they all gather up their coats.

"Oh! The mall!" says Willow excitedly, tugging Buffy's arm. "She loves the mall. I think she gets that from you."

"A dog park!" proposes Anya. "She's got a thing for the Schnauzers. I remember –"

"But none of those memories are real," points out Xander. Buffy glares.

"They are to her. And to me."

"I'm just saying she might _avoid_ the places she remembers," he clarifies.

Buffy takes a deep but faltering breath, and Spike moves to her side, bold enough to rest a comforting hand on her mid-back, not caring what the Scoobies may think.

"Just find her. Please," Buffy says softly, gazing at each friend in turn.

With nods and consoling handshakes, the group parts ways, heading for their assigned quadrants. Spike picks up a faint scent, and he and Buffy rove through town, eventually dead-ending at a park.

"Trail goes cold," he sighs, frustratedly kicking the wooden frame surrounding the sand underneath the swing-set. "Sorry, luv."

"Dawn! DAWN?!" Buffy shouts into the night air, voice laced with desperation. Spike just shakes his head sadly.

"Yeah, that should do it."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she says harshly, rounding on him.

"The Niblet scampered off to get _away_ from you. She hears you bellowing, she's just gonna pack it in the opposite direction. Can't say I blame her."

Buffy sags onto one of the swings and brushes her hair back, discreetly wiping a tear.

"You were right," she whispers, staring between her own feet. "This is my fault. I should have told her."

Spike sighs, takes her by the hand, and pulls her into his arms, squeezing her tightly.

"Look, she probably would have skipped off anyway, no matter how she found out. She's not just a blob of energy, she's also a fourteen-year-old hormone bomb. Which one's screwin' her up more right now, spin the bloody wheel. You'll find her, just in the nick of time. That's what you hero types do. You'll find her," he repeats firmly, off her distressed look.

"And then what?" she mumbles.

Without an answer, Spike just slips her arm through his and leads her to the other side of the playground, continuing to search the area. At the end of the hour, they make their way back to Restfield, where the others join them in pairs.

"We looked, but no Dawn," sighs Willow.

"What about the carousel?" Spike insists.

"We checked there too," nods Tara.

"Nothing?" Buffy inquires of Giles and Xander.

"Sorry, Buff," Xander answers, shoulders sagging.

Spike feels the waves of panic radiating off Buffy as she realizes prospects like these – a teenage girl wandering around alone, missing for hours – would be cause for alarm in _any_ town, let alone one frequently razed by supernatural terrors

"_Anything_ could have happened to her, not just Glory," Buffy murmurs to the grim group. "We'd better check the hospital."

As one, they take off at a rapid pace and are soon gathered in the emergency room of Sunnydale Memorial. Buffy approaches the reception desk, inquiring if anyone matching Dawn's description has been admitted. Her face when she shuffles back to the rest of the group reveals they've reached another dead end.

"She hasn't been brought in," Buffy whispers, and Tara takes her arm comfortingly. Spike aches to do the same, but under Giles's tense eyes, he refrains.

"That's a happy thing, right?" asks Xander, but at this point Dawn-still-missing and Dawn-hospitalized are basically equally morbid outlooks.

"I don't know... I can't –" Buffy starts stuttering, nearing breakdown, out of ideas.

A harried-looking doctor suddenly pushes between them, two security guards tailing him. As he quickly departs, they catch a few phrases.

"...Found him on the floor in the break room. You guys should see him. His head's almost twisted clean off."

Buffy stares as the strangers head through a door, her heartbeat pounding in double-time.

"Glory."

"Follow them! I'll head 'round the back!" Spike shouts, taking off toward a staircase. The rest of the gang races after the frightened doctor, through the break room with the broken-necked body, and along a hallway in the x-ray ward.

"Where now?" gasps Xander, crowbar at the ready.

"Shh!" Buffy hisses. She hears a sharp _clap_ from an adjoining room, and she and Giles rush at the doorway, flinging it open.

There stands Glory – red silk and curled hair – inches away from a terrified Dawn.

"Get away from my sister," Buffy orders in her coldest Slayer voice.

"Hey!" grins Glory delightedly. "We were just talking about you!"

"Conversation's over, hell-bitch," snarls Buffy as Dawn dashes around the goddess and takes shelter behind Xander and Willow.

Throwing swift and heavy jabs, the Slayer drives Glory farther from the group, finally shoving her into a display full of x-ray images. Spike appears through the back door, drawn by the sounds of the fight, and loops his arms around Glory from behind, pinning her in place for Buffy's punches.

"Thought you said this skank was tough!" Spike shouts provokingly.

Ticked off, Glory shoves Buffy away, twists Spike's arm, head-butts him, and hurls him across the surface of an exam table, right through a pile equipment. He hits the wall, then the floor and slumps over, blinking furiously to remain conscious.

"If he wakes up, tell your boyfriend to watch his mouth," Glory says with a sassy toss of her curls.

"He is _not_ my boyfriend!" Buffy shouts at the hellgod, glad her reddening face is not visible to the Scoobies behind her.

"Oh, so it's like a big secret love affair or something?" teases Glory, fending off her renewed attack. "I mean, my boys saw you two with all the smooching and the loving..."

"What?" exclaim Spike, Buffy, and Giles, their voices all different levels of fury.

"An affair with this creature?" splutters Giles, trying to aim his crossbow at Glory and stare gloweringly at Spike at the same time.

"There was no loving!" Buffy insists to her irate Watcher.

"At least not the type the hell-bitch is implyin'," Spike amends, still partially sprawled on the floor and watching the two witches creep ever closer to their positions on either side of Glory. "Which is to say, there _is_ lovin'..."

"But not of the physical kind!" cuts in Buffy.

"Right, just a snog or two, when she fancies it..."

"Hey!" Glory interrupts their tirade, catching Buffy's foot mid-kick. "Those are really nice shoes."

She pushes, but Buffy uses her shove for momentum and spins into a backflip, kicking Glory on the way down.

"Giles, now!" she shouts, ducking to the floor.

_Ka-THUNK!_ The bolt hurtles toward Glory, but just as it should make contact, it bounces aside harmlessly, clattering over the tile.

"Oh, please," Glory rolls her eyes. "Like that's –"

_Clang!_ Xander pounds the back of her head with his crowbar, yet all it does is annoy the goddess.

"Hey! Watch the hair!"

She rips the crowbar away from Xander, hefts him into the air with one hand, and flings him at Giles, and both of them crash into another x-ray display wall near Dawn. She shrieks in fear, retreating near the door.

"Time to start the dying," threatens Glory, pointing the crowbar around like a ruler's scepter. Then she raises it javelin-like, vicious eyes on the brunette teenager.

"Dawn!"

Buffy desperately throws herself between them, catching the crowbar just below her shoulder. She falls to the ground with a pained cry, pulling out the iron tie.

"Buffy!" roars Spike, struggling up to his feet and positioning himself between Glory and the two Summers girls, shoulders hunched like a bear protecting its cave of cubs.

"Nice catch," Glory sarcastically complements. "Is that the best you little crap-gnats can muster? Cuz I gotta tell ya, so not impressed."

She takes a final cocky step forward between Willow and Tara, who in unison toss handfuls of sparkling powder over the hellgoddess. Outraged, she stares at the glittering dust collecting in her hair and clothes.

"Look what you did to my dress, you little –"

"_Discede!_" Willow chants, clapping her hands sharply. Glory only has enough time to glare in confusion at the redhead before she vanishes in a cloud of shimmering dust, and Willow collapses, blood issuing from her nose.

"Willow!" gasps Tara, rushing to her side.

"What did you do to her?" asks Buffy, hunched on the floor beside Dawn, a hand over her shoulder wound.

"Teleportation spell," Willow answers, wiping at her nosebleed. "Still working out the kinks."

"Where'd you send the tart?" inquires Spike as he kneels next to Buffy.

"Don't know. That's one of the kinks," admits the witch.

"That was an incredibly dangerous spell for an adept at your level," says Giles, tone cautious as he and Tara help Willow sit up.

"Yep. Won't be trying that one again soon. Is Xander okay?"

"Dazed, but I'm sure he'll be alright," nods the Watcher, also glancing toward the still-unconscious carpenter.

Buffy checks Dawn for injuries, ignoring Spike's attempts to lay his hand over her own wound like a cool compress.

"Are you okay? Did she hurt you?"

"Why do you care?" Dawn retorts glumly.

"Because I love you!" answers Buffy insistently. "You're my sister."

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you _are_. It doesn't matter where you came from or how you got here. You _are_ my sister." She nudges Dawn with her elbow. "There's no way you could annoy me so much if you weren't."

Happy tears now filling her eyes as her angry defensiveness evaporates, Dawn reaches for Buffy, and the sisters embrace.

"I was so scared," whispers Dawn.

"Me too."

"Luv... warm fuzzies aside, your shoulder's still bleedin' an awful lot," Spike reminds her with deep concern, donning his game-face. Giles snorts.

"Oh, please. We are in a _hospital_ for Pete's sake. Shouldn't we rather –?"

"No," corrects Buffy, releasing Dawn and looking expectantly at Spike. "This'll be faster, and my Slayer healing'll kick in right after anyway."

Giles capitulates, concentrating on helping a dizzy Xander to his feet. Spike bends toward Buffy, aware of the tension building up in his body, the lusty call of the Slayer's blood. Worried that the chip might accidently activate at any moment, he anchors one arm around her back and presses a closed-lips kiss to her wound, then slips his tongue through the torn hole in her shirt and flicks it around gently, coating the lesion with his vampire balm. Buffy gives a tiny irregular gasp, unaware until that moment how very close Spike's lips and tongue are to her breast.

"Whoa, ho, ho... what wacky dimension did I wake up in?" gawks Xander suddenly, prompting Spike to quickly back away, blue eyes resurfacing from behind the gold. "And what was that stuff Glory was saying? Affairs and smooching..."

"Yes, I'm sure that's something of which we would all like to be better informed," Giles agrees, sternly watching Buffy, Spike, and Dawn get to their feet.

"Giles," Buffy begins falteringly, trying to make eye contact with her Watcher but guiltily looking down whenever she succeeds, "I'm a big girl... a-and I totally don't have to ask your permission, 'cuz you're not my dad... well, kinda you are... but the point is I've got a nice two-oh for my age now, not a teenager anymore... a-and say for instance there was this... this guy, i-in the workplace... feelings may develop, just kinda in passing, experimental..."

"Yeah, yeah, Spike and Buffy are a secret couple and they make out and stuff," Dawn interrupts with a confident wave of her hand, smirking at Giles.

Tara and Willow's grins have enough potential energy to power the entire town. Spike gazes at Buffy, hope rising within him at the fact that she is willing to admit to her disapproving Watcher that she harbors _something_ for him, as vague as "feelings" may be.

"Well..." Giles coughs, removing his glasses and reaching in a pocket for his trusty lens-cloth. "I... um, well... I can't bring myself to condone such a... relationship..."

"Seems to me she didn't _ask_ you to," Spike grumbles under his breath.

"...But... I'll admit Spike's potential as a... companion, at least for Slaying purposes, may prove advantageous in some small respect."

"That's stuffy-British-speak for have fun and be safe," Willow nods at Buffy.

"It most certainly is not!" protests the Watcher, while Dawn, Tara, and Xander chuckle, heading for the door. "Honestly," he glares after them, "how can you all be so infernally glib after the horrors we suffered at the hands of Angelus?"

_Of course he'd bring up the Poofter_, Spike scowls silently, following the witches and giving the two Summers sisters their privacy_. Like grandsire, like grandchilde, that's what they all expect. Well, I'll show 'em. I'm better than that bastard even without a soul_.

"Come on," Buffy whispers to Dawn, holding open the door into the hallway.

"Wait," mutters Dawn, her face scrunched up in concentration. "Ben... he was here! He was trying to help me. He... I... I think he might have left before Glory came." She frowns, puzzling over what had happened between sitting down with the two cups of marshmallow-free hot chocolate and the arrival of the half-mad hellgod, but for the life of her she can't recall what transpired. "I can't... I can't remember."

"It's okay," Buffy reassures her. "Don't worry about it. Next time we see him, we'll thank him. I have to get you back home though. Mom's freaking out."

"Oh, is she mad about the whole fire thing?" Dawn asks guiltily.

"I think you sorta have a get-out-of-jail-free card on account of big love and trama."

"Really? Okay. Good."

Hand in hand, they move into the hall, and Dawn glances brightly at Buffy.

"You think she'd raise my allowance?"

"Don't push it," replies the Slayer.

* * *

"So... they all know about us now," murmurs Spike. They sit in Buffy's room, side-by-side on the bed, recalling the tenderhearted tears of joy Joyce had shed at the sight of her prodigal daughter, and the smile she'd turned toward them when Dawn had gleefully announced their relationship.

"Yeah. Stupid Glory and her tattletale-ing minions."

Spike swallows, his mood slightly squelched. "You don't think it's a plus, luv? Don't have to hide anymore... don't have to keep me in the shadows, figuratively speakin', like I'm somethin' dirty you ought'a keep out of sight."

"I didn't mean it like that," she amends. "Just... kinda wasn't ready for everybody to know we're... whatever we are. Everybody's gonna assume something different, probably jump to a lot of false... Oh my god! Anya's gonna ask me how good you are at sex!"

Spike chuckles dryly. "Oh, I don't doubt it. You can tell her the truth, luv." He leans back on the bed, arms crossed behind his head, smirking roguishly. "I'm _fabulous_ at sex."

She giggles and pokes him in the stomach, and then to his surprise her hand lingers there, trailing indistinguishable shapes across the fabric of his black t-shirt.

"So... you tasted me a teensy-tiny bit," she whispers. "Yummy?"

"Mmm. Incredible, luv. Been a long time, and either my memory's failin', or yours was near a hundred times sweeter than the last Slayer I sampled. You're... like that Elvish bread in _The Lord of the Rings_, a single taste is like a multi-course meal, complete with wine and desert."

She snickers again, but her face turns serious almost instantly.

"Spike... I wanted to thank you, for everything you did today. Guarding Dawn when she went to you, helping find her when she ran off, fighting Glory..."

"Wasn't much good then, gettin' myself nearly knocked out cold."

"She got the best of all of us. If it hadn't been for Willow... we all could have been killed."

"But we weren't, just a smatterin' of bumps and bruises. That's what matters, I s'pose."

"But... I wanted to thank you..."

"You have," replies Spike, eyes narrowing. "What exactly do you... Buffy?"

His voice drops in volume as her small hand moves down across his upper thigh.

"Lie down, Spike."

"Am lyin' down," he murmurs throatily, watching her fingers ease the button of his jeans through its hole. "What are you up to, luv?"

"Shh... got to stay quiet so Dawn can sleep..."

"Buffy?"

Her green eyes on his blues, she unzip him slowly, and he gasps at her warm touch on his groin, hand encircling him.

"Is this okay?" she mouths, watching his eyes dilate as she strokes him, blissfully balmy against his cool hardness.

"Buffy... oh, dear god, Buffy, yes..."

Though unneeded, his lungs work like a train engine, forcing heavy breaths through him in time to the movements of Buffy's hand. His head tilts back into the pillow, body arching off the bed.

"God, Slayer... oh, god..."

"Gotta stay quiet," she murmurs again, smiling as she leans over him and brushes a kiss against his lips, her hand still pumping away.

"Buffy..." he breaths, half-choked, straining. "Love you... sweet god, Buffy, I love you..."

His jaw clamps shut suddenly, teeth clenching as his body stiffens, reaching his release sooner than either of them expected. Slowly slackening against the sheets, he holds her close, gasping into her hair.

"Good?" she asks after a minute's silence, zipping his jeans shut and procuring a tissue for her hand.

"Wonderful, baby..." gasps Spike, voice still husky, impassioned. "Love you so much. Never saw that comin'..."

She giggles, nestling against his side, and he chuckles as well, his innuendo completely unintentional. "Meant you surprised me, is all. Thought you weren't comfortable with... that sort of lovin' between us."

"Not... not _loving_ yet," she sighs. "Just, I dunno... thanking you, like I said."

Refusing to let her hesitancy discourage him this time, Spike tucks her closer against him, wrapping his arms around her, both of them feeling tiredness quickly advancing upon them.

"My amazin'... beautiful... Buffy..." are the last whispered words she hears before her exhaustion and contentment envelop her, and she drifts rapturously to sleep in the arms of her vampire lover.

* * *

_A/N: Yeah, I was trying to put off the reveal of the Spike-Buffy couple-age to the Scoobies until later, but then it just kinda seemed like an applicable time with Glory's boyfriend comment. Of course, Buffy has still to admit to herself if she loves Spike (which she is still struggling with that at this point, but the time will come, and it will be well-deserved when it does!) Please review! You all are the best!_


	21. Chapter 21: Crave a Little Violence

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for all your reviews! Feedback is always appreciated! Abundant thanks to anyone who voted for me in the recent _Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards_. I received Runner-up in two categories: Best New Author (me) and Best Unfinished Fic ("Five Words or Less")! Nominations for the next round will start on August 1st, so feel free to PM me if you want to nominate me for anything so I can give you my IRL email.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "Crush", both direct and altered quotes. Lyrics from "Play It By Ear" by Summercamp and "Key" by Devics. And one _Star Wars_ quote, just 'cuz.

General naughtiness warnings in the first scene.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Thanks to a runaway Dawn and a blabbing hellgod, Spike and Buffy's secret relationship is revealed to the Scoobies._

* * *

Chapter 21: Crave a Little Violence

"Now _this_ is more like it," Xander comments as they stroll through the open doorway of the remodeled Bronze, the whole place thrumming with excitement. The vibe is much more modern, the gothic and industrial tones almost completely obliterated.

"Guess they were tired of the old warehouse-y look," nods Willow, admiring the new paint job. She takes Tara's hands and tugs her onto the dance floor, and they sway to the upbeat music blaring over the crowd.

"Dance with me!" insists Anya, yanking up and down on Xander's sleeve.

"Okay, okay, babe. Buff..." He holds a twenty out at her. "Liquid refreshments on me, for I am Payday Man."

"Thanks, Xand," she answers, taking the bill just in time for Anya to drag him away near Willow and Tara. Watching the two couples and trying not to feel like the fifth wheel, Buffy buys herself a light beer and settles into a chair near the dance floor, leaving her change on the table. Slightly pensive, she listens to the song lyrics, belted out by the boy band on stage.

_/ I'm amused by the overwhelming choices  
I guess the hardest part is knowing when to stop  
I'm confused and I think I'm hearing voices  
Things are happening so fast  
Do I save the best for last? /_

"Bleedin' crime is what it is," says a half-irritated British voice just behind her.

Her mood improving immediately, Buffy turns her head as Spike sidles over from the bar and sits across the table from her. He holds up his own beer – apparently the source of his mild vexation.

"Jackin' up the bar prices to pay for fixin' up this sinkhole. Not my fault insurance doesn't cover Act of Troll."

She just beams.

"I've half a mind to find another place to patronize. 'Specially since the flowerin' onion got remodeled right off the soddin' menu. Only thing this place had goin' for it. 'Course I have spotted some walnutty muffin tops that might make up for it."

Buffy openly giggles this time, only slightly curious as to how he knew she would be here feeling left out of the couple-age. Credit most likely is due to Dawn, though with the sneaky smiles Tara and Willow keep giving her, they might have contributed as well.

"_This_ is a new look," she smiles appreciatively, taking in Spike's radically different attire choices from his usual black leather ensemble. He's in khaki pants, a grey-blue button-down that incredibly complements his eyes, and his inseparable duster over top.

"Like it?" he asks, slightly self-conscious.

"Very. What's the occasion?"

"Well, I saw you... sittin' here alone," he answers in the same almost bashful-sounding tone. "Thought, I dunno, you could... maybe do with a bit of, uh... company."

"A world of yes, please," she nods, eyes drifting back over to the witches, Xander, and Anya. Spike follows her gaze, shrugging off his duster and draping it over his chair. When the boy band finishes to excited applause and makes way for the next musicians in the Grand Re-Opening line-up, he sets his beer down on the low table between them and offers Buffy his hand.

"Want to dance the next, luv?"

"Do I ever!"

She almost slams her drink on the table in her enthusiasm and flounces up, her blonde curls springing and bouncing as she and Spike make their way to the center of the floor. The new music has a steady, vibrant beat, but Spike ignores it, opting for slow and sensual. Facing Buffy, he touches his cheek to hers, his palm flat to her hand. It's classical and intimate all at once, connected only at their hands and the sides of their faces, breathing steadily in each others' ears. The female vocalist croons into the microphone, voice echoing.

_/ You think you can have both of them  
And I want you to know that I'm in, I'm in  
And this time I'm staying  
To bury the trail that you left, you left /_

Though the slow dancing is nice – and certainly keeping her much too busy to contemplate what the two pairs of Scoobies think of her partner – Buffy's never been much of a tame club dancer. She's big on glamour and zest, a little naughty gyrating to work off the tension from a rough school day or a challenging patrol.

So, remembering that night the Council arrived in Sunnydale, Buffy decides to tease.

She turns around in Spike's arms and backs up into him, until she's flush to his chest, her ass pushing into his hips. His throaty inhale lets her know she's taken him by surprise, and she glows in her brazen power. Lifting her arms up and around his neck so he can't escape, she starts to swivel her hips, grinding into him. His eyes go very wide, then roll up, chin dropping as she presses against him. He snakes his arms around her waist, tangling his digits in the silk of her black blouse, and takes gasping, gulping breaths of the scent of her hair.

Couples around them start to take notice, outshined by the undeniable seductive electricity they're emitting like the flashes of a strobe light. Buffy closes her eyes, and the singer continues, watching the two blonds herself.

_/ You ask me to say what I have done  
I told you just like I told everyone  
I still have some doubts that you are the reason  
Still this is just so hard 'cause I know that I'll be left like  
Always, Always  
Here I'm safe, so here I stay  
Let me out, lift the doubt /_

Thrilled that she chose these particular black leather pants for tonight's extravaganza, Buffy slips her hands a little higher, coiling her fingers into the roots of Spike's gelled hair.

"Enjoying this?" she whispers up to him, her words audible only to the supernatural pair. He just growls appreciatively, brain and body too preoccupied to reply.

The guitar riff repeats once more, drums and bass keeping time. Spike kisses the back of her neck as the song ends, and his hands remain at her waist, vibrating slightly.

"Bloody hell, Slayer," he groans. "Stand in front of me 'til your mates stop lookin'."

Buffy opens her eyes and blushes a bit, taking in the sight of Anya, Willow, Xander, and Tara on the dance floor's sideline, their expressions covering the gamut from appreciative to dismayed to romantically empathetic. With the pause in music comes a rise in the volume of chatting voices all around them, and Buffy spins around to face Spike again.

"So, did you like your dance?"

"I'll make my mind up when the blood comes rushin' back to my brain," he chuckles, still panting slightly though he'd barely moved during the whole dance. Where formerly he had been filled with hesitancy – worried that Buffy might not welcome his intrusion into her Scooby-Gang event – now he's emboldened, hard in the British sense as well as the physical. He slings an arm around Buffy's waist, keeping her locked against him as the crowd mills around them.

"You know, the first time I ever saw you, you were dancin' like this, right here with your mates, the night before I hit your school. Think a tiny bit of me started fallin' for you then and there."

Buffy smirks, flattered. "Really?"

"Cross my heart, my naughty little Slayer." He reaches up and trails his fingers across the black lace at the top of her blouse, above her own rapidly pumping ticker. "Now, please lemme sit down and have a few swings of some cold, harmless beer."

"I think you _loved_ dancing with me," Buffy challenges, running a hand down his t-shirt as they maneuver back to the table and retrieve their drinks. "Definitely _felt_ like you did."

"What gave it away, the fact that I can't walk straight now?" he murmurs, quickly sitting down as the others approach. "Were you _tryin'_ to make me combust in the middle of the room?"

"What's gonna combust?" asks Willow innocently, and Spike _ahem_-s and leans forward so his elbows rest on his knees, subtly holding his cold beer bottle between his legs.

"Hey, Evil Dead, you're in my seat," gripes Xander.

Perhaps if the carpenter is fully honest with himself, he feels slightly obligated to be the anti-vampire voice of reason in Giles's absence, but his qualms are self-generated as well. Tolerating Spike during a harmless game of pool – just two normal guys strolling in once a week, the only two in the Fish Tank who aren't swaying under the effects of a veritable cocktail of illegal drugs – is one thing, but the reservations he'd had during the Christmas party and in the aftermath of Dawn's rescue are on high alert now.

While the chip may seem a more stable and effective leash on Spike than Angel's soul had proved to be, Xander can't help dreading that Buffy'll just end up with her heart broken again. Spike pulls his fair share in a fight, and Buffy could always use a little rest from the destiny bit... but the two of them... _together_... just doesn't add up to anything good in Xander's head. Vampires are monsters, even if they sometimes join you for pool games or rescue your little sister, even if they _seem_ to be fighting the good fight without a soul to nag in their ear...

Spike's eyebrows tilt at the hint of derision in Xander's tone. "Really, Harris?"

"Yeah-huh. Up, up, up."

"Even after we took on that Glory chippie together? You an' me an' Rupes in the thick of it, fightin' the fight... well, now come to think of it, you didn't contribute too much, did you?"

He grins condescendingly, tongue between his teeth.

"Yeah, Xand, you were sleeping the sleep of the knocked unconscious," nods Buffy, smirking at her long-time friend.

"He almost went out for the count too!" accuses Xander, tapping his foot impatiently as Spike refuses to get out of the seat across from Buffy.

"Still, points for intent," says Spike. "Should certainly be enough to cut me a sliver of slack. Earn a little consideration, respect."

"Still want the chair."

Spike shakes his head. "Tsk, tsk. I'm hurt, Harris. Truly."

"And you should never hurt the feelings of a brutal killer." A few silent seconds of thinking later, Xander looks around at all the girls. "You know, that's actually some pretty good advice."

"I want drinks before we sit down," Anya protests. His attempt at being the alpha-male thwarted, Xander sighs and picks up the change from the black tray on the table, and the four humans make their way toward the bar.

"I could use a water," shrugs Willow, accepting the bottle of aspirin that Tara digs out of her purse.

"Water poses no challenge for Payday Man," Xander replies confidently.

"I love Payday Man," sighs Anya, rubbing his arm soothingly. "He's cool _and_ rich, and that awful, clunky, cast thing is finally off."

"Ooh ooh! Xander's cast is gone at last," sniggers Willow. "See, 'cuz... it rhymes."

Watching her jovial friends with significantly less jealousy than before Spike had arrived, Buffy turns her head when she feels her own chair sagging slightly. Spike slides in beside her and draws her legs over his knees.

"Thought I'd be the better man and let Harris have his precious chair," he smirks, gently nipping the lobe of her ear. "Don't mind cozyin' up to me, do you, luv?"

Instead of answering, Buffy draws his mouth to hers and devours him. The beer, music, dancing and the heat of all these excited bodies around them has caused a building inferno inside her than can only be quenched by his cool, soft lips. Her hands rake back through his gel-stiffened curls, and she moans into his open mouth, amorous and desperate.

Bearing their drinks, the Scoobies return to the table to find the unexpected sight of the two blonds almost thrashing on the same chair, mouths and arms tangled into each other.

"Buffy?" asks Xander, conflicted between trying to get her attention and looking in the completely opposite direction as his vampire-smooching leader. "Whadiya doing?"

"Xander, I think it's pretty obvious what she's doing," Willow giggles at his dismayed look.

"But... she's... they're... _there_, at the table. _Kissing_, like she and he are some sort of... kissing buddies."

"They _are_ kissing buddies," Tara reminds him.

"I seem to have developed selective amnesia," Xander says with a shudder as Buffy leans even deeper into Spike, lips working madly.

"That worked for about the first three days, honey," Anya points out, sipping her fruity drink. "It's been two weeks since we found out about them, and they were probably having a lot of hot sex way before that. We should get tips."

"Anya... we are _not_ going to ask for sex tips from Buffy and Spike."

"Why not? Are you intimidated?"

Xander's jaw spasms, and he flounders for an alternate topic.

"Why is he even here? Don't demons go hang out at Willy the Weasel's? Or do all of the other reindeer laugh and call him names?"

"Xander," says Willow disparagingly as Spike and Buffy's faces finally unglue, "you do remember we found out about you and Spike playing pool, right? You don't have to pretend to be so mean to him anymore."

"Once!" protests Xander. "Pool was once."

"Once a week, near-enough as I recall," adds Spike smugly, his arms relaxing into place around Buffy's waist. Face slightly flushed from the ardor of their caresses, she tucks her hair behind her ears and focuses on Willow as she swallows her aspirin, Tara gently rubbing her back.

"Poor Will," sighs Buffy. "Still getting those headaches?"

"Fewer and further between, but yep, they're still exercising their visitation rights."

"Honey," chides Tara, "in case you didn't hear me the first six _thousand_ times, no more teleportation spells."

"Well, it's just that we have squat in the way of Glory-fighting arsenal and... another run-in with her and my headaches and nosebleeds are gonna be the least of our problems."

Buffy slumps back in her chair, her head on Spike's shoulder.

"You know what? This is the first R and R I've had in weeks. How about we go one night without saying the name Glory."

"Didn't nag your boyfriend when he mentioned her," Xander says in a muted tone, half his words spoken into the froth of his beer mug, but still detectable by both Slayer and vampire.

"Don't call Spike my boyfriend," counters Buffy harshly, and Tara and Willow both flinch at the steel in her voice. "And don't talk about him like he's not here."

"I _am_ here, luv, no need to defend me," Spike whispers, coiling a curl of her hair between two fingers, his subdued attitude returning. _Still can't bring herself to say it, think it, even though we've come clean to the sidekicks_.

"A-and we won't mention 'she who must not be named'," confirms Tara. "We'll just call her another name. Let's call her –"

"Ben!"

The gang turns in the direction of Buffy's gaze to see the hospital orderly chatting with a couple other young men on the other side of the pool tables.

"For example," mumbles Tara hesitantly as Buffy hops up.

"I'll be right back," she says hurriedly, rounding a pillar and making her way over to him. "Ben! Hey!"

"Buffy, hi," Ben replies, his conversation companions leaving.

"I barely recognized you without your hospital scrubs," Buffy says, lightly teasing.

"Oh, you'd be surprised at the extent of my wardrobe. I actually have entire outfits that aren't blue pajamas."

He leans slightly closer to her as he says this last bit, their words audible to only one member of the abandoned Scooby gang. Spike listens intently, his hand clenched so tightly around his half-empty beer bottle that miniscule cracks are forming in the bottle's neck. Tara rests her eyes on Spike for a moment as his aura explodes with colors – red hot rage, a cooling periwinkle of dejection, and the sickly green of envy.

"Um, my sister told me what happened at the hospital before I got there," Buffy continues, the joking tone vanishing from her voice, replaced with grateful sincerity.

"Uh huh?" says Ben cautiously.

Though Buffy ignores the infinitesimal widening of Ben's eyes and the wary edge to his voice, other physiological sights of his sudden bout of nerves do not go unnoticed by the vampire on the other side of the room. Spike listens to the young man's heart rate jump up, sweat beading on his forehead and neck, adrenaline lacing his bloodstream.

_What kind of bloody game are you playin', boy?_ Spike snarls inside his head, blue eyes piercing the intern like laser beams. _What did you do that you're afraid the Niblet's gone and told us?_

"And, uh, I just wanted to say... thanks," Buffy concludes with a smile. "For looking after her," she adds when Ben just looks flummoxed.

"Oh," he sighs, relieved. "Oh, okay. Sorry I wasn't able to stick around."

"Probably just as well that you didn't. Things got a little dicey. But everything's back to normal now," shrugs Buffy.

"I'm just glad Dawn's okay."

"Yeah, she's fine. And maybe something good will come out of all this hospital time. Maybe she'll want to become a doctor."

Ben grins conspiratorially. "Oh, don't let her. It's really hard."

They chuckle together, making Spike's blood boil.

"Wait a sec..." Xander says suddenly, flipping through the change he received from buying the group's drinks. "I should have six more dollars, where did...?" His gaze drops down to the bottle being strangulated by the vampire. "Spike, you diabolical fiend."

"What?" he retorts gruffly, eyes still trained on Buffy and Ben.

"I work hard for that money. I thought you have your whole demon gambling ring thing."

"Didn't take your money, Harris."

"Listen, Bleach Boy, I don't have a chip in my head. I can do far more damage to you than you can ever do to me."

Spike's voice is hoarse and quiet when he finally replies, watching Buffy pat Ben on the shoulder right before she stands to return to their group.

"Yeah. Like you could ever hurt me."

"What's up?" asks Buffy, glancing from the ire in Xander's expression to the sympathy on Tara's. Spike avoids her quick look and stares at his beer, his thumb tracing the fault lines in the bottle's neck.

"Spike bought his beer with Xander's money," Willow mouths, gnawing on her lip.

"No, he didn't," Buffy recalls. "He already had the bottle when he sat down with me. Xander, Spike never touched your money."

"Then why am I short six dollars?"

"Spike didn't take your money, Xander," Anya pipes up, appearing at his shoulder. "I did. I got us these walnut muffin tops."

Xander reddens, peering quickly from the pastry Anya offers him to Spike's melancholic face. "Oh... gosh, sorry, Spike."

"Forget it," the vampire mumbles, rising and unfurling his duster. "Want me to patrol the north side of town, luv?"

Buffy squints in surprise. "I... thought we were gonna go together, like usual."

"In the mood for a bit more violence, probably go tear up Willy's when I'm through."

"More violence than the usual patrol violence?" she inquires with a grin.

"Just lemme go, pet. I'm not your bitch."

"Spike?"

He throws on his duster without another word and stomps away towards the exit, ignoring Buffy's completely stunned look.

"What's up with him?" snorts Anya unsympathetically. "I didn't get enough muffin tops to share? I know it's customary among humans that when food is served in front of a group –"

"It had n-nothing to do with the m-muffins," Tara whispers, a tear beading up in one eye as she watches Spike's leather-clad form swish through the Bronze's door. If his aura had a voice, it'd be screaming, wrapped in tangled, thorn-ridden vines of pain and anger.

"Sweetie, what's wrong?" Willow demands, reaching out to squeeze her lover's hand. Tara looks from her girlfriend to Buffy, who stares back with cocked eyebrows.

"Can't you s-see what you're d-doing to him?" the blonde witch murmurs. It shouldn't take supernatural empathy or the strong tie of gratitute she feels toward Spike for anyone to pick up on his threatened, defeated disposition.

"Not the way you can, apparently," Buffy answers, working hard to stop from snapping back in confused ire. "What's his problem?"

"I think maybe he thought you were flirting with Ben or something," shrugs Willow, trying to interpret.

"We were just talking. I thanked him for corralling Dawn, that's all."

"It's m-more than just th-that," Tara shakes her head at the Slayer. "You don't... you don't l-l-love him. He's g-g-giving you everything h-he h-h-has, b-but it's never g-g-good enough for you. _He_'s not g-g-good enough."

Buffy guiltily glances back towards the Bronze's doorway, but her love-stricken partner is long gone.

* * *

"Spike's coming!" gasps a trembling fledgling vampire, tripping through the door of Willy's bar and looking as though all the forces of righteousness are on his heels. "He's just massacred a whole den up in Miller's Woods! He's crazy, man! Crazy!"

"Now just, just calm down," Willy stutters, quickly hunting his shelves for Spike's favorite whiskey, Jack Daniels, and his freshest flagon of premium blood.

"_Calm down_?" the newbie whimpers. "The guy is on a rampage! He's slaughtering anything and everything in sight. There ain't a demon that can stop him!"

The bar is already emptying, patrons rapidly finishing their drinks and leaving piddling tips on their tables.

"Aw... now come on," Willy protests weakly. "I thought you guys weren't scared of Spike anymore."

_BANG!_ The door hinges squeal against their bearings, revealing Spike framed in the doorway like a gunslinger. All the remaining demons wince visibly and shrink in their booths, trying to go unseen, and the young vampire cowers at the bar, keeping his head ducked.

Spike plods inside, his steps heavy, threatening. There's dark blood on his hair and neck, but whether it's his own or some slain demon's, it's impossible to tell.

"Evenin', Willy," Spike growls. As he reaches the bar, his hand shoots out, locking around the neck of the inexperienced vamp who'd witnessed his demon-targeted carnage. A quick _snap_, and then all that's left of the fledge is a half-cup of dust on the barstool.

"Spike, ol' buddy," Willy nervously laughs. "What brings you? Want blood? No problem, no problem. Got the best of the best right here. On the house tonight, between old friends."

"We're not friends, you bottom-feeding driveller. Don't want the soddin' blood. Just want to know..." he raises his voice, snarling around to all the bar's petrified occupants, "if any of you pathetic, arse-kissin' lowlifes have any information for me."

"Sure, sure," Willy nods obsequiously. "Whatever you want, just got to ask. Whiskey then?"

"Double," the vampire snarls. As soon as the shot glass is filled, he slings it up and drains it in a single swallow. "Hit me," he orders, slamming the glass down. The cowardly bartender complies, but a second later it's empty yet again. "Hit me."

"Spike..." Willy murmurs, genuinely concerned now.

"Hit me again, dammit!"

Shuddering, Willy pours Jack Daniels into the shot glass. Spike tips it straight into his throat and shakes his head with a rasping snarl.

"Right," he sneers around the bar, sizing up the demons with his slightly bloodshot blue eyes. "Tell me... _everything_ you pansies know... about Glory. Exiled ruler of some hell dimension. Wanna know where she lives, where she's been seen, where you've seen her monk-y monkeys... hell, I'll settle for the bleedin' brand of toilet paper she buys! I want the dirt on this skank an' I want it now!"

* * *

"Buffy?" says Joyce, glancing up as the front door opens and her eldest daughter enters the house.

"Back by popular demand," replies Buffy, removing her coat and entering the living room.

"Did you have a nice time?" inquires Giles.

"I did. Much-needed fun, apart from Willow's headaches and..." She swallows whatever else she considered saying, about Spike's dejection and rapid departure. Giles is already tightly-wound enough about all things Spike, but he's respected her wishes over the last two weeks and kept his critical comments to a minimum.

"Well," says her mother, "I'm relieved that you're home. Because to be honest, I wasn't feeling all that safe with you gone."

Giles takes a pointed sip of tea, brows raised in an exaggeratedly wounded manner.

"...At first," Joyce flounders when Buffy indicates Giles with her eyes. "... And then I remembered that Rupert was here and I felt much, much safer."

"Yes, well, thank you for that little backpedal, but uh, I'm forced to agree that I'm barely an adequate substitute for a Slayer in the house."

"I thought you were adequate," offers Dawn, lying on her stomach in front of the TV, her unfinished homework laid out before her.

"And the accolades keep pouring in," huffs Giles. "I'd best take my leave before my head swells any larger. Good night."

"Good night," replies Joyce, gathering up their teacups and popcorn bowls. Buffy follows Giles into the foyer and speaks in an undertone.

"So... how is Dawn?"

"She's coping very well," answers the Watcher brightly. "Extremely well, considering the extraordinary circumstances of her origin."

"Then let me ask you something. Um... we're been going easy on her these last two weeks, letting things slide..."

"Oh, I don't think that's wise at all," Giles says with narrowing brows.

"You don't?"

"No, the best thing you can do now is behave exactly as you always have. Any special treatment at this stage is likely to undermine Dawn's sense of normality."

"You think so?" Buffy pleads, as excited as if Christmas has returned eleven months early.

"Absolutely."

"Thanks," she nods, before twirling around and shouting into the living room. "DAWN!"

Dawn jumps up, eyes wide. "What?!"

"What did I tell you about borrowing my clothing?" demands Buffy, crossing her arms as Giles subtly slips out the front door, fleeing the imminent sibling conflict.

"I didn't take your clothes."

"Bull!"

"I never touched your stuff," Dawn protests firmly.

"Really? Then what happened to my blue cashmere sweater?"

* * *

The wastrels at Willy's yield next to nothing about the hellgod, just a few brief mentions of when they've noticed her robe-glad uglies waddling around the shadier parts of Sunnydale. Not one of them has a ghost of a clue where her headquarters could be located, or had spotted her crossing town to the hospital the night Dawn had run away.

So he kills them. Five vampires, two demons who look like they work part-time for WWE, and a particularly squirmy shape-shifter who manages to slide a knife deep into the muscle of Spike's thigh before he rips its head clean off. Leaving Willy covering beneath the counter, Spike – bloodied and badly beaten – just mutters, "Sorry 'bout the mess," and staggers to the doorway, slamming the door behind him. He knows the bloody trail of footsteps he's leaving is likely attracting every demon in southern California, but he doesn't care, almost daring some other creature of the night to cross him.

Spike crawls through the sewer entrance of his crypt, padlocks it behind him, sheds his duster, and limps to his shower. He yelps slightly as the cold water hits the cuts on his face, but, like a sweet aftertaste, the cool spray brings relief after the initial pain. He peels his clothes off piece by piece - the khaki pants ruined by bloodstains and slashes - exposing more gashes and bruises to the water's cleansing power. Soaping up a frayed washcloth, Spike washes his neck, chest, and back, wincing when the rag runs over his numerous small injuries.

The laceration in his thigh has only barely started clotting, watered-down blood streaming in rivulets down his naked leg. He scrubs at the stab wound, ripping it open fully again and yowling in agony as the soap pervades his flesh.

When the water pooling between his toes is finally clear of both blood and suds, Spike shoves the knob to the off-position and stumbles out of the stall, roughly toweling off his body. He hobbles to his bed and is about to collapse when the alcohol-induced buzz finally crumbles enough for him to remember why he'd fled the Bronze and spent the whole night pounding out his despair into whatever demon chanced to cross his path.

The shaking starts in his fingers. Spike looks down at his tremor-ridden digits, watching the quakes spread up his arms, down across his bare back and the clenched muscles of his abdomen, and into his legs. It's hunger and hangover and abandonment all melted together like a three-pronged trident skewering his heart.

Falling to his knees beside his bed, Spike glances weakly up the ladder, but he doubts he has the strength or coordination at the moment to climb to the upper level and see if there's any pig's blood in his fridge that's not yet stale enough to be unendurable. It'd be just his sort of luck if he dragged himself all the way up only to find his stock empty.

Head drooping, Spike spots the corner of the cardboard box underneath his bed. He reaches out to tug the dust ruffle to conceal it again, but pauses, spotting the stolen clothing article on the top of the photos, sketches, and smashed up pieces of mannequin.

Pulling Buffy's robin's-egg-blue cashmere sweater from the box, Spike heaves himself up onto his bed and slides between his cool sheets, the fabric like ointment against his battered body. He caresses the sweater weakly, lays it against his pillow, and buries his face in the scent of the Slayer.

* * *

_A/N: I know this one was a mite short and had a lot of canon dialog, but it's all setting things up for some major AU happenings in the next 1-3 chapters. Please review!_


	22. Chapter 22: Valentine's Day

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thanks for all your reviews, and a special welcome to new readers Ellie and Da0122, and to the guest who is leaving such lovely anonymous reviews! Wish you would log in so I could give you a personalized thank you! Rest assured: I will finish this story; I have plans and ideas to carry this AU all the way through all of Season 6 for sure!

Also, nominations for round 29 of the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfic Awards start on August 1st, so feel free to PM me if you want to nominate me for anything so I can give you my IRL email.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "Crush" and "Intervention", both script and transcript quotes, and one quote each from "Lovers Walk" and "Chosen". Also quoted is Shakespeare Sonnet LXII.

**Mild to medium smut and general naughtiness warnings.** I honestly surprised myself; didn't think I wanted to take them quite that far yet... but the words just kept coming. Nothing _too_ explicit, but skim if you have to. This chapter got _long_.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: A naughty little dance at the re-opening night of the Bronze ends badly when Buffy races off to talk to Ben, leaving poor Spike in a jealous rage. He storms out and reeks havoc in the demon underground, yet is unable to wring any information on Glory out of the lowlifes. Buffy thinks Dawn stole her sweater, but actually Spike's sleeping with it. _

* * *

Chapter 22: Valentine's Day

"Thank you, Tara," Dawn smiles, hugging the blonde witch tightly as she and Willow prepare to leave for the night. "It helps. It really does."

"We all love you so much, Dawnie," Tara whispers back, her hand running down the teenager's smooth brown locks as Joyce looks on, beaming. "Remember, you d-don't have to let anything that anyone t-tells you be what defines you. You're the only Dawn Summers there is. Just be yourself."

"As long as it's the least annoying version of yourself," chimes in Buffy, sitting on the living room couch with her head resting on Spike's shoulder, glancing through the book of Shakespearean sonnets she and Dawn had given him for Christmas.

Dawn scowls over at her sister and starts to roll her eyes, but stalls when she gets a good look at Spike. He's been notably quiet this evening – in fact, his demeanor's been silent and surly nearly constantly these past two weeks, since the reopening of the Bronze. There's a gauntness to his pale face that's definitely out of the ordinary, and small midnight-blue circles rim his lower eyelids.

"Why don't you read..." says Buffy, oblivious to Dawn's observations. She skims a fingertip down the poem collection's Table of Contents and freezes it at random over Sonnet LVII. "..._That_ one."

Wordlessly, Spike flips to the appropriate page, and a dry smile tugs at the corners of his lips as his quick eyes glance over the verse. The four females in the foyer pause in the midst of pulling on coats and saying their nightly farewells.

Sitting a little straighter, Spike recites in a fluid, elegant voice, his accent devoid of its typical cockney roughness:

_"Being your slave what should I do but tend  
Upon the hours, and times of your desire?  
I have no precious time at all to spend;  
Nor services to do, till you require.  
Nor dare I chide the world without end hour  
Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,  
Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,  
When you have bid your servant once adieu;  
Nor dare I question with my jealous thought  
Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,  
But, like a sad slave, stay and think of naught  
Save where you are, how happy you make those.  
- - So true a fool is love, that in your will  
- - Though you do anything, he thinks no ill."_

The silence that pervades the house seems almost alive – a cold fog, petrifying them all in mesmerized consternation. Willow and Joyce are frozen in the transfer of the redhead's coat from the rack to its proper owner, Tara's mouth is open in a sad 'O', and even Dawn is struck by the depth and squelched grief in the poem.

But no one realizes this more than the vampire and the Slayer. The words could have been plucked letter by letter right out of Spike's battered heart. Buffy bites the inside of her cheek, her eyes remaining fixedly on his long pale fingers rather than daring to look up into his face and see the poem's bitter truth reflected in his eyes.

Joyce takes it upon herself to shatter the unnatural quiet.

"Thank you again, girls," she addresses Willow and Tara. "I may not agree with the... spells and everything, but you are such lovely young ladies and have been so wonderful to Dawn. Come over anytime."

"Th-thank you, Mrs. Summers," replies Tara, drawing her eyes away from the dull orange and charcoal black strains coiling through Spike's red aura. "Goodnight Dawn."

"Bye-bye, Dawnie," says Willow quietly, slipping her coat on and opening the front door. The two witches wave from the porch, a gesture returned by Dawn and Joyce as the girls get into Tara's car. The front door closes with a soft _snap_, and, without anything more than a quick glance at each other, Mrs. Summers and her younger daughter head upstairs to their rooms, leaving Spike and Buffy alone on the first floor.

Unsure whether she should begin with an apology or an embrace, Buffy just tugs the book of sonnets out of Spike's fingers, tosses it onto the coffee table, and threads her fingers into his, nestling her head against his shoulder. He remains immobile, eyes nearly closed.

"Look," she begins, hoping to clear the air, "I never got the chance to say this that night at the Bronze 'cuz you ran out, but... I wasn't flirting with Ben."

"Never said you were, pet," Spike breathes. _Nor dare I question with my jealous thought / Where you may be, or your affairs suppose_... _Can't really blame her for not lovin' me, not when there're plenty of livin', breathin' tossers linin' up behind me, waitin' for me to slip up..._

"I swear, I was only talking to him to thank him for finding Dawn at the hospital. If he hadn't been there, maybe Glory would have gotten to her sooner and something might have happened before we found her."

"I know, luv."

"Spike..." Buffy hesitates until his gaze lifts to her face – revealing desolate, tired eyes. _What are his eyes a window to, since he hasn't got a soul? _"Spike... is something wrong? You just seem less... snarky."

He shrugs indifferently but still maintains eye-contact. "Frustrated, I s'pose. The night you mentioned – night I bolted from your little Scooby party – I went down to Willy's and roughed up the clientele, tried to make the ugly wankers spill their guts 'bout Glory and her hirelings. Nothin'. Bloody nothin'."

He leans over and finger-combs his hair with both hands, sighing in deep aggravation. If he was human, there'd be sweat beating on his brow. _Don't need to tell her I got myself stabbed tryin' my damnedest to rip the truth out of their soddin' skulls..._

"It means a lot that you did that. You've done so much already..."

"Not enough," he contradicts, so quietly that he might just be talking to himself. _Not enough for you to love me_... _Every bloody thing I do, I do out'a love for you and the Niblet and Mum... but especially you, luv..._

"It's not like anyone else has any new leads," Buffy huffs, slumping against the back of the sofa. "Giles basically has the Encyclopedia Demonica, but there's squat on Glory besides the stuff we already got out of the Book of Tarnis."

"Hate bein' in the soddin' dark."

"Me too."

Roughly brushing back his hair again, Spike takes a deep breath and turns on the couch to face Buffy, his tone surprisingly business-like, though still hesitant.

"Well, pet... tomorrow's Valentine's. Reckoned we could... make a night of it... get dinner, quick patrol, then... dunno..." His voice falters away to nothing, and he scuffs his Doc Martins against the edge of the coffee table, bunching up a fistful of leather coat in his left hand.

"Spike... are you... asking me out on a _date_ for Valentine's Day?"

"Well... Yeah! I am." He puffs his chest stalwartly, almost daring her to mock him. Still confused by his lack of usual confidence and swagger, Buffy doesn't know whether to act amused or pitying, so she aims to respond kindly.

"I'd love to, Spike. In fact, if I'd remembered what month it was, let alone what day, I think I would have expected it. Anything in particular you want to do?"

_You_... is the wanton thought that flicks through Spike's head before he can stop himself, and his lips twitch halfway to a wicked smile.

"Spike?" whispers Buffy, pleased to see the grin starting to form, but her words are cut off in a soft gasp as Spike reaches for her and gently pulls her into his body. Cool, malleable lips knead against hers, and she gives in without hesitation.

It always seems different when he initiates, perhaps because she so rarely gives him the chance... like all his fears of rejection and abandonment are expressed wordlessly through his lips, simultaneously pliant and hard, gentle and rough.

Buffy gasps faintly into the kiss, and he groans in kind, arms winding more tightly around her waist. She runs one hand down his chest, nails snagging at the thin cotton of his t-shirt until she reaches his waist, and then with a quick tug she slips her hand back up beneath the shirt. A purr-like moan escapes him as her warm palm slithers up his torso, and his own fingers roam to the small of her back, seeking hot, bare skin.

_I want this... want him... more than I think I've ever wanted anything..._

_Crave her like I crave blood... 'cept I don't even crave that like I used to... too love-sick to eat or sleep anymore..._

All of a sudden, his kisses become subdued, as though he's retreating into his silent shell again. Too aroused to let him withdraw now, Buffy digs her hand more firmly into his chest muscles, her other hand winding up into his hair.

"Stop thinking," she demands, pushing him back a little farther and leaning over him, one knee hitching around his thigh so she's almost straddling him.

"Your mum's comin' back downstairs," says Spike softly. Though their relationship is now 'public' among the extended Scooby circle, he still doubts she wants her mother walking on them intertwined in passion.

_Darn_. Buffy thrusts her tongue into his mouth for one last second before she reluctantly pulls away, straightening his t-shirt as she extracts her hand.

"So, uh... when are you picking me up tomorrow?" she asks, cheeks flushing as Joyce descends the stairs, carrying a small laundry basket towards to the basement.

"Seven-thirty suit you, pet? I'll bring the car around."

"Yeah, I'd like that. Hey, Mom!" Buffy says a little louder, almost bragging. "Spike's gonna take me out for Valentine's Day. On a real _date_."

Joyce beams, but the glee doesn't quite reach her eyes as she sees the lingering pain in Spike's expression. _Poor boy, thin as a rail and looks like he hasn't slept in a week_...

"That's lovely of you, William. I'd tell you to have her back by eleven... but of course that's when you two usually leave for slaying, so it wouldn't do much good. I guess all I can ask is that you take care of my little girl."

"Always do, Mum." _Throw myself in harm's way for her, take a stake to the heart if it meant she'd keep fightin'..._

"I know," says Mrs. Summers kindly, his thoughts transparent to the insightful mother.

"You're okay with us being out late?" Buffy asks, standing up as she remembers the insecurity Joyce had felt two weeks ago at being left without a guard on the house. "Willow and Tara beefed up those protection charms, and I could ask Giles to come over. I'm pretty sure he doesn't have any Valentine's-related plans."

"No, no, I couldn't possibly intrude on Rupert's evening."

"Oh, come on, Mom! You know the only woman he'd ask out for Valentine's is _you_," giggles Buffy. "If he's here, it'd be kinda like a date, except with Dawn around... which is very anti-date now I think about it."

"No matchmaking from you, young lady!"

"But the last time _you_ picked a guy by yourself, he turned out to be a _robot!_" Buffy rationally points out. Spike chuckles, standing up and tucking the Shakespearean sonnets into an outer pocket of his duster.

"S'pect I should go before you start tryin' to drag me into this," he mumbles. "G'night, Joyce."

"Goodnight, Spike."

She deliberately turns her back on them, carrying the basket of laundry toward the basement door, and as soon as she's out of sight Buffy spins around and into Spike's immediate embrace.

"Love you... so much," he whispers, his rough voice sounding nearly agonized as he kisses her forehead. "So in love with you, Slayer."

Buffy squeezes him around the waist, unable to convey any satisfactory response through actual words. _Need you... want you... can't imagine what I'd do without you..._

"Be back tomorrow night, then," nods Spike after another few moment of silence, slipping out from her arms.

"I'll be the one in red," she calls after him as he moves to the front door. For one delightful second, he grins at the memory of her crimson v-necked nightgown, how heedlessly they'd kissed that night back in late November, before the tangled web of the Council, Glory's godhood, and Dawn's immense danger had closed tightly around them.

"You're beautiful in anythin', precious," he whispers, a brief affectionate twinkle in his eyes before he opens the front door and strolls away into the misty night.

* * *

Elsewhere in Sunnydale, a train pulls into the station, its cars devoid of living occupants.

* * *

Valentine's or no Valentine's, Buffy and the duo of witches still have class the next morning. Buffy doesn't even pretend to pay attention to the lecture, too excited, almost thrumming. Her date outfit is already laid out on her bed – second-skin leather pants, a ruby blouse with frills along the deep neckline, and a black lingerie set that's guaranteed to make Spike's eyes pop... _if_ they go that far tonight. She anticipates the night's schedule almost down to the minute: a romantic dinner wherever he decides to take her, a quick patrol that's sure to get them both hot enough to tear at each other's clothes, and then... one of them will suggest going back to his crypt, probably her if she still feels the way she does at the moment... _I hope he has a bed, not actually sure, 'cuz he's still never let me see the downstairs_...

Caught up in _what-if's_ and _maybe's_, Buffy barely registers the bell sounding the end of the class period, and only gets up when Tara gently tugs her arm.

"I just don't see why he couldn't end up with Esmeralda," Willow sighs to Buffy and Tara as they exit their literature classroom and roam the hallways of the academic building, hunting for a vending machine.

"They could have had the wedding right there," continues the redhead, the other two unsympathetic to her plight but listening in amusement. "Beneath the very bell-tower where he labored thanklessly for all those years."

"No, see, it c-can't end like that, 'cause all of Quasimodo's actions were selfishly motivated," Tara protests, digging through her purse for change as they finally find a snack dispenser. "He had no moral compass, no understanding of right. Everything he did, he did out of love for a woman who would never be able to love him back. Also, you can tell it's not gonna have a happy ending when the main guy's all bumpy..."

She stops speaking, the analogy clear as day, but neither of the other girls seem to have made the connection between Quasimodo's plight and that of their blond vampire ally. _But he's _not_ motivated selfishly... he _does_ understand right and wrong, and he's choosing to do what's right when everything, even what he _is_, prompts him to do the opposite. He's so good to Buffy, so good _for_ her..._

"What'd you think, Buffy?" asks Willow, the first of the three to unearth some coins from the depth of her purse, which she hands to Tara with a smile.

"The test isn't 'till tomorrow, right?" the Slayer shrugs. "I don't have an opinion until then."

"But you read it, right?"

"Kinda not. I rented the movie."

"Oh, with... um, Charles Laughton?" Tara inquires as the vending machine yields her requested treat.

"I don't know," Buffy mutters with tilted brows. "Was he one of the singing gargoyles?"

"Oh boy," moans Willow, nervously dreading her friend's grade.

"What? I'm kidding!" Buffy calls after the two witches, but then she stops walking, noticing the headline on the newspaper a nearby student is perusing. "You done with this?" she asks, already hauling the paper from the boy's hands.

"Yeah, hi, uh, kinda reading that..." he mumbles, but she completely ignores him, quickly catching up to Willow and Tara to show them the front page.

**METROTRAIN MASSACRE: Six Found Murdered on Train at Sunnydale Station**

"Six found murdered..." Willow reads in a hollow voice.

"Glory?" wonders Tara, dreading the possibility.

Buffy shakes her head, eyes skimming down the accompanying article. "Unconfirmed reports of severe trauma to the throats of one or more of the victims."

She lowers the seized paper, glancing between Willow and Tara. "Survey says... vampire."

* * *

When she hears the DeSoto pull into the driveway with a rumble, Buffy tears down the stairs, pausing only to check her makeup in the foyer mirror. Despite Dawn's sanctimonious assessment that she "looks kinda like Faith," Buffy thinks she's working the smoky-eyes, cherry-red-lips look to good effect. If she comes across as seductive... well, that's kind-of the point. She wants him, and she _knows_ he wants her... and the night is young for beings like them.

The doorbell rings, and Buffy flings the front door open as soon as she can clasp her fidgety fingers around the knob. Spike's cleaned up for the occasion remarkably well – tight indigo jeans, a hunter-green button up, and a grey-blue t-shirt hugging his defined chest – and in his left hand is a bundle of roses, a dozen red and one each in white and pale pink.

"Hey, handsome," says Buffy, the first of the two to stop merely ogling the other and find her voice.

"'Lo, beautiful," replies Spike, husky. "Uh... brought these. White's for Mum, and the bubble-gum's Dawnie's. Figured you wouldn't mind."

"Oh, of course not! You're the only person I'd allow to give her flowers anyway. She's kinda bad-moody because she didn't get any cards at school today."

"Should I be sorry for the Niblet or relieved that we don't have to rip any arms off middle-school lads?"

"Both, I guess," she grins. "I'll get vases."

She walks with springy steps into the kitchen and procures a tall-necked glass and two smaller ones. Spike follows, already regretting his choice of restrictive leg-wear. _Only one reason I can think of for her dressin' so bloody irresistible... Cor, I want her so much already..._

"So, uh... dinner or patrol, first, luv?" he asks, struggling to keep his voice steady. "Found an easy target. Two vamps holed up in a warehouse downtown, just beggin' for your pointy sticks."

Buffy chews her lip, then stops when she remembers how much lipstick she's sporting. "Actually, I was hoping we could stick something else in the schedule, before we go to dinner. I saw in today's paper that six people were killed on the train that arrived last night, and the deaths sounded decidedly vampy."

"Gonna take a poke 'round the crime scene, sleuth out anythin' to help you stake the buggers?"

"Exactly. Come with?"

He smiles, fitting the roses into their allotted vases. "Don't even have to ask, pet. A little mystery and intrigue always makes a date more fun."

"Perfect." Then she yells up to the second floor. "Mom! Spike and I are going out!"

"That's great, dear!" Joyce calls back, remaining fixedly upstairs to give the besotted couple any privacy they want.

"Call Giles or Willow first if anything fishy happens!"

"But we won't be too far away, should you need us, pet," Spike adds, voice only raised slightly as he rushes back to the front door ahead of Buffy. "An' there's flowers for you an' Dawnie in the kitchen."

"Bye!" Buffy shouts, volume overpowering any expression of thanks that Joyce has time to say. She hurtles out the front door, down the driveway, and straight into the passenger side of Spike's car. He joins her, shooting quick glances at her as he fits the key in the ignition.

_I want you, really want you_. _Stupid murders._

_I want you so bloody much..._

It's going to be a long night.

Impressively, they manage to keep their hands to themselves during the whole drive to the train station. Spike turns off the headlights as they approach, in case the site is under police watch, but there's no sign of the cops aside from yellow tape marking the door to the train car. Buffy scoots out as soon as he turns off the car.

"Get your vampy senses up. Look for clues."

He nods and tosses her a flashlight from the glove box. She clicks it to life and rips the tape away from the train doorway, stepping up off the platform and into the car. Spike sniffs the air as he steps out of the DeSoto. The scent is strong, definitely vampire... and powerful, but his senses are already half-clogged by lust and Slayer, too sidetracked to pin down the aroma.

"Got any clue as to the kind of clue you'd like, pet?" he asks, mounting the car as well and glancing around at the tape-marked seats.

"Something. Anything," mumbles Buffy, shining the flashlight around the dark compartment.

"Well, seems Sunnydale's finest didn't leave much to examine. Smells like at least a dozen buggers have traipsed through here already. Nothin' left."

Buffy nods, shoulders slumping. "Not enough bad vampires in my town already. Now they have to come by train."

By the dim light of the overheads and the flashlight, Spike's mesmerized, taking in every red, black, and blonde inch of Buffy. If the immigrant vamp had returned at that moment in search of seconds, he could have clocked Spike in the head without any resistance.

"Pet... I... I don't think we're goin' to find much," he whispers, swallowing roughly.

Buffy meets his eyes and nods jerkily. "No... guess not."

"So... so dinner then? Found a place I thought'd suit the occasion, an' it's only a block or two from the patrol target I had in mind."

"Mmhmm."

"We... need to go back to the car, pet," Spike murmurs, pleased to see the effect he's having on her is equally distracting as what she's doing to him.

"Right. Car."

Half-worried that touching her will start an actual fire inside the train car, Spike reaches out and weaves his fingers into hers.

"Come on, luv. Gonna treat you to dinner."

* * *

To any stranger's glance, the blond couple in the corner booth of the little Italian restaurant seem completely ordinary, except perhaps for the unnatural paleness of the young man and the fact that only the girl orders any food. There's no outward sign of the electricity in the air, the heat that arcs between them every time jade eyes meet sapphire ones.

"Now I _definitely_ need to go on patrol," Buffy giggles, polishing off the square of mouth-watering tiramisu. "Majorly need to work this off."

She gives him a foxy look through her lashes. _Or _you_ could help me work it off..._

"Right," he murmurs, reading her meaning without a doubt. He leaves enough cash on the table to cover their dinner and a decent tip, and they stroll back to the car, maneuvering it a half-block further into the alley. Then comes the waiting... second after heated second... and the backseat starts looking more and more tempting...

"There!" hisses Spike, pointing through the windshield and shocking them both with the crack in his voice. Two figures cross the street and enter the designated warehouse, their steps furtive and their foreheads the tell-tale ridges of vampires.

"Those the guys?"

"Yeah," says Spike, opening his car door. "Imagine these rotters are tougher than they look. Pro'ly very crafty... and wily."

Buffy grins, extracting a stake from her coat – since her leather pants are decidedly too tight to fit one in the pockets. Spike draws his own from his duster, and they slink stealthily to the warehouse door.

"Ready, luv?"

In response, she kicks in the door and rushes in, Spike just behind her. At the sound of the door slamming back into place, the two vamps look up from the rattiest couch Buffy has ever seen. One of them drops a handful of CDs as he stands, and the other also rises from the popcorn he's preparing over a hot plate.

"The Slayer!"

She doesn't even have time to take a fighting stance. The two vampires simply turn and flee, whimpering with fear as they clamber out through some broken windows at the back.

"Well, that was... sad!" exclaims Spike with a laugh. "I'm embarrassed for our kind."

They step forward together, eyeing the clearly long-occupied nest of the two cowardly demons. Buffy giggles as the abandoned popcorn continues roasting noisily.

"So... should we chase after 'em, then?" asks Spike. "They can't have gone fa–"

Stake clattering to the ground, she reaches up around his neck and drags his mouth down to hers, the rest of his words lost in a moan. His own stake slipping from his fingers, he slides his hands down her back, pulling her close.

"I think... we've done... enough patrolling... for tonight," she murmurs impatiently, rocking against him.

"Ease up, luv," gasps Spike, barely stopping his own hips from bucking in response to her movements. "Doubt you want anythin' to happen _here_. Reckon that couch is pro'ly diseased."

"Can... can we go to your place, then?"

Grinning, he plants teasing kisses on her forehead, cheeks, and nose before returning to her lips. "Thought you'd never ask... well, no, I s'pected you would ask right about now."

He snatches up the two fallen stakes and pockets them before yanking the warehouse door open for her, and they dash out into the night, hand-in-hand, leaving the car in the alley. Cool air whips their faces as they tear through starlit streets to Restfield Cemetery, and when they reach his crypt, Spike flings the door open and draws her inside after him. Her coat and his duster hit the floor even before the door swings shut with a protesting _creak_. They crash together, arms around necks and waists, gasping with unmitigated longing.

"Do I finally get to see the d-downstairs?" Buffy asks tremulously as he kisses along her neck, cradling her against him.

"If you'd like, my love."

"Of course I'd like... I mean, yes, I want t-to see it."

With great effort, Spike loosens his hold on her, leaving just their hands entwined. He leads her to the ladder – the slab already scooted to the side – and they descend together. Buffy waits a moment at the foot of the stairs while he lights numerous candles, needing time to adjust her eyes to the semi-darkness. As more and more of the expansive cave becomes visible, she gazes around in pleasant surprise.

The first unexpected furnishing is the shower in a nearby crevice. It's rudimentary – no curtain, just left open to the rest of the room, exposed. Rust-colored Oriental rugs coat most of the stone floor, a bookshelf adorns the back wall by the padlocked sewer entrance, and the phone sits atop a small desk between the ladder and the bed... _The_ Bed... layers of milk-white linen sheets and ivory duvet covers, like whipped cream. Buffy almost shouts in thanks that his sheets aren't maroon. Too many bad memories, and some almost good ones that she's nevertheless eager to forget.

"I, um... fed the wires for the fridge and stuff through here," he mutters, pointing at a few drilled openings in the stone, large enough for extension cables to pass through. "Already told you 'bout the phone line here, and that was a bloody pain. Nearly electrocuted myself to get it workin'. And the shower's got runnin' water, hot and cold."

"You shower?" she asks, grinning. "What happened to claiming a lack of body odor?"

"I... I just like how it feels. Warm water. I like feelin'... alive," he murmurs, recalling all the nights he's crawled back here a bloody mess, or fresh from a patrol with her, aroused to the breaking point. "Sometimes need to... take the pressure off."

Though no longer panting like she had during their run from the warehouse, Buffy can still feel her heart pounding rapidly inside her chest, her coursing pulse probably visible to the vampire across the room.

"I know it's not much," Spike shrugs, glancing around quickly at the stone walls and ceiling. "Still could use some work."

"It's... comfy," says Buffy, stepping towards him. "Kinda posh, actually."

He smiles at the positive reception. "Think the only person besides you who's been down here is the Niblet... And I most certainly didn't _invite _her! She snuck up on me."

"Yeah, she's... sneaky that way."

"Asked me if I was your beau that night, before she ran off an' we chased her to the hospital." He drops his eyes to the rugs and chuckles. "Insightful little imp."

"Spike... let's not talk about Dawn right now," says Buffy, lifting an eyebrow and drawing another step closer, nearly backing him into the side of the bed.

He doesn't know why he's suddenly stalling, why he isn't obeying his body's near-screaming urge to pull her down on his bed and ravish her until daybreak – provided her Slayer strength doesn't put a speedy end to his stamina. Perhaps it's the only _mostly_-dead Victorian gentleman making a return debut, insisting that for there to be physical love, there's got to be a pledge of emotional love expressed first, mutually. Perhaps it's his lingering shreds of dignity protesting that he's only as convenient as the _last_ rebound guy she attempted to love.

Reaching out to Buffy, Spike gently skates his hands down her shoulders.

"Buffy, I... I'm not just a passin' fancy to you, 'experimental', like you told your mates. This... this is real, here. I love you."

His fathomless eyes plead with her, deep glassy blue. And she longs to give him the response he wants to hear... but knows he would see through her, hear the insincerity.

"Spike, you... you know I'm not ready to say it."

A vein bulges in his neck as he swallows.

"Not... not even between us, pet, all alone in the dark, in private? I'm not askin' you to tell all your Scooby mates if you've found anythin' more than rote feelings, though I'd be through the roof if you _did_ tell 'em."

"They're already mad."

"Does that matter?" he challenges. "You care that much 'bout what they think, or you just don't like being judged by your chums? They don't get to write your life, luv. Not Watcher, not the whelp, not the witches. I'm not snoggin' any of them."

"And I was _so_ certain your heart belonged to Xander," she sniggers.

When his chin drops in indignation, she sweeps one foot out and catches him behind the ankles, tipping him backwards onto the bed. He growls playfully as he lands, but the growl turns into a low rumbling in the back of his throat as she falls with him, her leather-clad core pushing on the budge in his denim. The sudden increase in the scent of her arousal jolts through his nose like a shot of pure steam.

"Buffy... bloody hell..."

"Ohhh, Spike..."

She rocks down, and he bucks up, and the Victorian-gentleman-voice in his brain waves a white flag and retreats for good.

"Think you can bloody-well tell where my heart belongs, luv," Spike murmurs raggedly. _Heart... body... soul if I had one..._

Buffy nods against the side of his head, fingers of both hands flicking swiftly down the buttons on his green over-shirt.

"Slow down, pet," he breathes, though his body heartily disagrees with the idea. "Plenty of time... got all night..."

"_All night_..." she repeats seductively. "You _must_ be fabulous."

"Marathon-man," he grins at her, propping himself up on his elbows so she can tug the green shirt down off his shoulders. But instead of pulling it all the way off, she leaves it bunched up on his biceps, slightly restraining him, and leans forward to ravage his mouth with kisses. Spike lets his head sink back against the downy covers, his own hands coasting down her sides and resting on her hipbones, then lower still, following the slinky leather clinging to every curve of her lower body, firm cheeks, killer thighs.

"You... you can undress me, if you want," Buffy whispers, suddenly breathless.

Spike gives a long, low groan of desire. "Do _you, _luv? _Want_?"

She nods skittishly, then her lungs hike up into her throat with a tiny gasp as Spike rolls them over, pressing her into the bed linens. The chilled metal of his belt buckle touches the bare skin of her stomach where her blouse has ridden up slightly, and below that, denim-clad steel pushes gently against her moist heat.

"I do want you, luv," he moans against her jawline, lips dancing on her flushed skin. "Want you so badly I sometimes think I'm burnin' up... Want to hold you, touch you, make love to you 'till you're cryin' out my name and burst with pleasure in my arms. Do you want that, Buffy?"

She just nods again, lungs fluttering too rapidly to find enough air for words.

"Gotta tell me straight out, Buffy. You want this? With me?"

"Yes... Spike, yes... ohhh..."

Her back arches involuntarily as his mouth skims lower, following the curve of her collarbone as far down her chest as her blouse allows.

"Gonna take your shoes off first. That alright, pet?"

"Mmhmm."

He slides down her, salivating ravenously as his face nears her heat. Buffy reddens.

"I... I d-don't want you to do _that_, y-yet. I... I haven't..."

"No worries, luv. Won't push. Won't do anythin' you're not up for. You set the pace, and I'll enjoy the ride."

He leaves one teasing kiss on her inner thigh before kneeling on the floor beside the bed and removing her footwear.

"So beautiful... every bloody inch of you, Buffy..."

Spike's fingers massage the sole of her bare left foot, and he presses his lips to her ankle, yielding a high-pitched whimper from her at the unexpected cool sensation. Then he stands, cups his long-fingered hands around her calves, and changes the angle of her body so she's lying straight on the bed instead of diagonally. Pupils dilating in arousal – black almost overwhelming the blue – Spike lets the green over-shirt slither off his arms, unhooks his belt, and tugs it free of its loops, kicking off his boots as he does so.

Buffy stares up at him as he kneels on the bed and starts crawling toward her, over her. Slayer-part tries to shrink away, screaming _predator_; woman-part arches up to meet him, begging for the touch of her lover.

"What next, baby?" he grins, his own unneeded breaths speeding up. "This?"

He carefully runs a hand down between her hipbones, fingertips barely sneaking underneath her waistband. Buffy whimpers in pleasure.

"Or..." His fingers change course, lifting the hem of her blouse and trailing tenderly across her stomach.

"SSssspike..."

"This, then," he smirks, daring to move his hand a little higher inside her shirt. "Love makin' you moan, pet..."

"Wanna make _you_ moan," she replies, freeing his gray shirt from where it's still tucked into his jeans.

"All in good ti– ahh, Buffy..." His throat quivers as her nails flow over the cool planes of his angular upper body and drag across his nipples.

"Get this off," she begs, and he sits up instantly, pulls off his shirt, and flings it halfway across the room. Her hands roam unhindered as he lies back down on top of her, his hips between her legs. She shivers involuntarily as his cool abdomen presses against her already sweating one.

"Sorry I'm so cold, luv."

"Good cold," Buffy corrects sincerely. If anything, the coolness of his touch – hands, mouth, any part of his skin – is extra stimulating, tantalizing, sending waves of sensation dancing over her flesh.

"Still a'right, luv? Sure you want this?"

"Want... want you, Spike..."

His mouth takes control of hers, tongue plunging, his fingers coiling up through her hair. Their arms are so tangled that Buffy's not really sure whether her hands or his are the ones yanking her blouse over her head.

"Ohhhh... Buffy, you're a goddess..."

He kisses down her throat to the crevice between her honey-colored mounds, hands skimming over her provocative black bra but not yet caressing, as though waiting for her explicit permission. Buffy nods unsteadily, then remembered through the haze of pleasure in her head that for some reason hearing the exact words is critical to him.

"Touch me, Spike..."

He groans in gratitude and settles his hands more assuredly against her lace-cupped breasts. Buffy mewls, back arching, legs hitching up around his waist.

"I love you, Buffy Summers."

"Mmm..." She moans appreciatively as – with agonizing gentleness – one of his cool hands slips around between the skin of her lower back and the crisp, soft sheets, then follows her skin around to the front, the pad of one finger disappearing inside her leather pants, then inside _her_.

"Spi-i-ike!"

"Too much, baby?"

"No! It's good... so good... Spiiike..."

"Little early for you to be cryin' out my name, precious," he grins. "I swear, Buffy, I'm gonna make you feel so good..."

"Want you... want you _now_, Spike..."

He groans raggedly as her hands zero in on his zipper, tug it down with a _shriiik_, and then pluck at her own.

"So eager, baby..."

"Aren't you?" she dares, closing one hand around his firm shaft, the other trying to shove his jeans down off his hips.

"You know I am... oh, Buffy... I love you so much..."

She becomes more and more breathless as his strong, lean hands take over where hers started, pulling down her zipper and releasing her legs from the figure-hugging leather. She winds her fingers up through his hair, freeing the gelled curls into disarray, trembling as he guides her legs around his waist again, now bare save her underwear set and his unzipped jeans precariously sagging off his hips.

"At least... I know you won't... go all evil when..." She stops, catching herself before she heads any further down that unwelcomed train of thought. Spike's dark eyebrows skyrocket.

"When _what_, sweetheart?"

She blushes and tries to reach down for him, distract him with another sensual touch, but his hand closes around her roaming one, his clairvoyant eyes searching hers, seeking sense out of her random words.

Then his smile fades faster than an extinguished candle, like even the _ability_ to smile has been removed from his muscle memory.

"You were thinkin' of Angel. I'm about three soddin' inches from inside you... an' you're thinkin' of Angel?"

"N-n-no, I wasn't."

"Maybe not deliberately. Not comparin', I hope. Sizin' me up to the dosser?"

"Of course not!"

"Don't get in a twist at _me_, Slayer. I'm not the one bringin' Mount Forehead into this."

He shoves off the bed, zips his jeans hurriedly, and stands a few feet away, hand over his brows. His shoulders shake with a mix of disgust and pain and pent-up hatred. _Wanker of a grandsire may have the cursed soul, but I've got the curse of pickin' up after him, tryin' to heal the sweet beautiful girls he uses and dumps. First poor Dru, and now my lovely Slayer, and no matter what the hell I do for 'em, they still go crawlin' back to 'im, 'cuz he's their first love, the one who ruined 'em_...

"Spike?" asks Buffy softly, fingers twitching toward the sheets, wanting to cover herself.

With a grunting yell, he swings a fist at the cavern wall, and a dusty chunk of stone chips off, a _crack_ ringing through the level. Spike stares at his trembling and bleeding hand, two knuckles broken.

"Spike... don't..."

"No, Buffy, you're right," he says, voice low and nearly choked. "I won't '_go all evil_' when we make love, because I've got no soul to lose. I've just got this love for you burnin' me up from the inside out, unmannin' me, turnin' me all soft."

She's stunned into silence, not quite sure when the tears start making their way down her face.

"I can't even remember the last time I walked down the street and felt any urge to have a go at a human passerby," Spike continues, standing squarely in the middle of the cave, blood dripping off his hand onto the rugs. "That's what you've done to me. Turned my demon into a lap dog. I can't eat, can't sleep... I'm ruined for you, baby. I love you with every bloody bit of me, but you can't love me back, too busy pinin' for the one you can't have. I'm just... your toy... your slave... your whore."

His voice cracks, and she remembers that dark night in the magic shop over two years ago, that same catch in his fervent voice: _"Love isn't brains, children, it's blood... screamin' inside you to work its will. I may be love's bitch, but at least I'm man enough to admit it_."

Her brain constantly tells her no... but her blood sings for Spike. Is _that_ enough? Is that _love_?

"I... I'm sorry, Spike. I am... _trying_ to love you."

"Is it really about the soul?" he pleads, lifting his hands to shoulder height, still ignoring the drops of blood from his cracked knuckles. "'Cuz if that's what it'd take, I'll find a way to get one. Heard about a place in Africa, demon trials, torture. I could do it. I swear I could. For you. Do anything for you, luv. Stake myself clean through the heart this instant, if you told me to."

And, gazing into his eyes, she knows he means it. He's got his demon beat into a tiny corner if he's strong enough to even consider fighting his way to a soul. He's truly reformed for her, changed himself from everything his very essence demands.

Then she really _looks_ at him, his bony ribs and shoulders, belt-less jeans hanging low and loose on his hips... he's starving himself... wasting away... literally killing himself.

Like a catapult, she shoves off the bed and hurtles up the ladder. Spike's chin drops with a horrified pant of exhaustion as she vanishes from sight. He can't even find the strength in his lungs to call out after her... plead... beg on his knees... take everything back and tell her she can scream Angel's name in his bed for all he cares, just as long as he can be the one holding her.

Utterly broken, he sinks to his knees and slumps forward on the layered rugs, torso heaving with bitter, hollow sobs.

And then her feet suddenly reappear on the ladder, her arms brimming with the sanguine contents of his refrigerator. He looks up with stunned, streaming eyes.

"I want you to drink all of it," she orders, shoving the jars onto the closed weapons chest at the foot of the bed and starting to yank off the lids. "_ALL_ of it. If it's not spoiled, drink it. Now. And then we'll go over to the hospital and get you some _human_ blood. And in the morning I'll go to the butcher's as soon as it opens, and we'll stock up enough for here and my house, so you never can have the excuse that you don't have anything to drink."

"Buffy..." he breathes, still stunned that she hadn't run away and left him.

"No!" she shouts him down, thinking his whisper is meant as argument. "You can't do this! You can't starve yourself. I need you, Spike... I... I l-love you."

He glances up, his sad scared eyes just faintly touched with hope, like the glimmers of candlelight that reflect off the tears streaking his cheeks.

"No, you don't," he whispers, dropping his gaze to the ground. "But thanks for sayin' it."

She chews her lip frantically. "But I _do_ n-need you. You mean so much to me... your strength, how your arms feel around me... God, Spike, if anything happened to you..."

"Yeah, so I'm some kinda cross between your sister's part-time bodyguard and your security blanket," he murmurs, voice scratchy. "You can't bring yourself to love me 'cuz you only see what I don't have, the black hole where a soul should be. You're ashamed of me, Buffy. Think that's what hurts the most. Hurts deep, gut deep. And it _is_ shame, no matter how you try to label it different," he adds when she opens her mouth to protest.

"Please... please just drink something, Spike," she whispers, reaching out for his hair and barely fingering his mussed curls. "I'll nuke it if you don't want it cold."

"Doesn't matter."

"It _does_ matter!" she cries, volume rising again. "You said you'd do _anything_ for me. Well, I want you to drink. I want you to live, un-live, whatever. If you didn't have your chip, I'd let you drink _me_! Anything to stop you from shriveling away like this."

His weary eyes find hers, and after a moment of staring – her face determined, his entire being at the end of his rope – he obediently nods and accepts the glass jar she shoves into his hands.

"How many days ago did you go to the butcher's? I don't want you to make yourself sick with rotten blood again."

"Can't remember. Smells alright, though. This particular swine must've been on a diet of preservatives."

He grimaces at his own feeble joke, and Buffy sniffles miserably, hunting around the room for her clothes. When he finally manages to drain the glass and sets it down, she's fully dressed again.

"Should've known you wouldn't take off in your skivvies," he mumbles. "Plus, I'd've had to pluck the eyeballs out'a any bloke who took a glimpse of you. Chip wouldn't take issue with a righteous cause like that, you reckon?"

She doesn't answer, just sits solemnly on the edge of his bed. Hoping to appease her, Spike picks up another small jar, sniffs it to reassure himself that it's fit for consumption, and takes a few large swallows. His stomach churns, already feeling bloated though the amount of mediocre blood he's just consumed is probably an eighth of the quantity he used to drain out of humans on a nightly basis.

"I should take you home, pet. Mum's always anxious when you're gone. Gotta go back to the warehouse and fetch the car anyway."

She wants to resist, throw a little tantrum – or even strip down again and see how he reacts – but she's just too worn out, head and heart.

"Okay. Just m-mop your hand up before we go. Don't want Mom to see."

He complies, rinsing his cracked knuckles in a few seconds of shower-water before dressing again and leading her from the crypt – walking close enough to hold hands, but never touching. A silent walk, a silent car ride, and then they're back in the driveway of 1630 Revello, the DeSoto idling like a purring lion. Buffy feels obligated to fix the botched evening, return it to the seemingly carefree state before her stupid motor-mouth had taken charge.

"The... the date was wonderful, Spike. Perfect."

"Glad, pet,'" he nods, eyes fixedly staring at his own pale hands on the steering wheel.

"Will you kiss me goodnight? O-only if you want to."

He glances at her, noticing the little smudges at the corners of her eyes where her mascara had run down with her tears. _She cried for me, 'cuz I'm in pain. Gotta mean somethin', right? Better than nothin' at all._

"Course I want to, Buffy. Always want you. Always love you."

He leans across the armrest and she meets him halfway, hands clinging around his neck as though she can heal him through her lips and clutching fingers.

"Happy Valentine's Day, Spike."

"Same to you, luv."

His voice is so hollow and lifeless it nearly siphons fresh tears from her. Bundling herself more tightly into her coat, Buffy shoves open the passenger door and leaves the car, rushing into the house.

It's midnight, but feel much later to Spike as he finally shoves the DeSoto's gear-shift into park in the lot beside Restfield Cemetery. He rips the keys out, buries them deep in a pocket, and shuffles away toward his crypt, eyes already watering again. He pinches his hand over his brows, then pauses, hearing the faintest scuffling on the dirt-sprinkled stone floor.

"Who's there?" he demands, suddenly aware of the same vampire fragrance that had lingered at the train station.

"A happy memory, pretty Spike..."

The voice chills his blood. He blinks in disbelief, squinting through his tears and haze of despair until the woman's figure steps out from the shadows. Smiling eerily, Drusilla trails a rosebud along her own cheek.

"Look who's come to make everything right again."

* * *

_A/N: Perhaps this is the result of my repressed irritation with Valentine's Day. Anyhow, I've never written anything this smutty before, so... kinda nervous. Feedback would make my day. (:_


	23. Chapter 23: Weird Love, No Love

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thank you _Vivi H88, reggie81, HaleKent, CailinRua, Fallen Priestess, Secret Slayer, Clara Jean, Spike is the BIG BAD, missgwen33, TieDyeJackson, Sarah, ObsessedwReading, in4fun143, daria fire demon, _and_ Da 0122_ for your supportive reviews! They kept me going through studying for my semester finals, and I'll try to keep up with personal thank-yous for this next update! To CailinRua and others who like Dru, my short work-in-progress Buffy/Firefly fic 'Morbid and Creepifyin'' is all Spike/Dru, in case you have any interest. Also, nominations for round 29 of the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfic Awards have begun. PM me if you have any interest.

I had a lot of trouble trying to map out the timeline I wanted for this chapter, and thus there was a lot of section rearranging, so I apologize ahead of time for choppiness and wordiness. This is a long chapter with a mix of silliness and seriousness. Thanks for your patience! These last few weeks have been out-of-the-ordinarily busy, but after one more insane week, my schedule should be fairly back to normal with weekly updates on nearly all my fanfic projects.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "Crush" and "Intervention", both script and transcript quotes. Starts right after the previous chapter, so re-read if you forgot what just happened. Enjoy!

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: After reading a chillingly applicable Shakespeare poem, Spike asks Buffy out on a date for Valentine's Day. They investigate the site of some murders at the train station, then enjoy a lovely dinner and some seriously heated smoochies. However, a careless Angel-related comment from Buffy kills the mood, but at least she notices Spike's skinniness and forces him to drink some blood before driving her home. He returns to his crypt to find a very unexpected vampire awaiting him..._

* * *

Chapter 23: Weird Love, No Love

"Dru?"

Spike shakes his head, straightens up, and slowly lowers his hand from his forehead. "It... can't be you, pet. You left me, left _again_ when I came crawlin' back for you. Still in South America, last I'd heard..."

"Yes... with the fuzzy furry things that sailed in the tree-tops, and the people tasting all funny..." She tilts her head, staring into a spot above Spike's left ear. "The birds made rainbows flowing all around my head, and some had heads bigger than their bodies. Perhaps they are wise birds, to have such very large heads. Is it so, my pretty Spike?"

"It _is_ really you, in't it, princess?" Spike whispers, his voice cracking with tiredness and shock. Drusilla looks at him for only a moment before stepping floatingly around the upper level of his crypt, her huge dark eyes bestowing little condescending glances on his refrigerator, the microwave, and the wadded-up blanket by the door.

"My William should never have to roll in dirt," she mutters, pouty anger in her voice. "My perfect, pretty, poet prince..."

"Eh, this joint isn't that shabby next to some of the shady places we've stayed in our time," he shrugs, leaning back until his head brushes the door. Wincing slightly, he cracks his sore knuckles back into place from when he'd broken them punching the wall, then flexes and stretches his hand, making sure his fingers are correctly reset. "Got a downstairs as well, but I reckon you've already seen it. Come through the sewers, eh, poppet?"

"Tiptoe, tiptoe, mustn't muss your hem now," she says, voice turning sing-song. She turns to face Spike, a gleeful grin on her face. "Will my pretty Willy come down to bed? Play with his princess?"

Spike's guts plummet, and he swallows hard as he meets Dru's gaze.

"Dru... Drusilla, I..." Another swallow, another few seconds of delay for his exhausted brain to attempt to collect his thoughts... while his cooped-up inner demon berates him for not dragging his ageless lover down to his bed and having himself a proper end to his spoiled Valentine's. "Not... not in the mood right now, sweets."

Drusilla giggles, smiling knowledgeably. Without warning she slinks toward him – no sound but the rustling of her black velvet gown over the concrete floor of the crypt – and slides her hands up and down his chest, as if to warm him with the friction she's creating.

"Little Willy must come up. But what comes up must go down... only after. Then little Willy again."

Body shivering – not with amorousness, but with dread and weariness – Spike captures her hands in both of his and folds them together, pushing them off his torso.

"I mean it," he says a bit louder, no blood to blush in his cheeks. "Not sleepy and not in the right frame of mind for what's obviously in yours. Have yourself a kip down there if you'd like. Got things to do." _Said I'd go to the hospital... promised Buffy I'd drink more..._

"Will my blood-winner bring something tasty home to princess?" she demands with glee.

"Maybe," he mutters, pulling open the crypt's inner door and shoving absently at the grate beyond it. "Yeah, I'll scrounge somethin' up. Then we... we can talk."

"Give me tit for tat, while we have a little tête-à-tête," she nods, smiling in her special eerie way.

"Sure," Spike grumbles, already stepping outside. Preparing to close the door, he suddenly faces Drusilla again, looking her full in the face. "You... you are real, right, luv? Not me pullin' duff out'a thin air?"

She meets his gaze with clairvoyant eyes. "Not leaving you tonight, my William. Must listen better when princess talks to you. I said I've come to make everything right again, and so I shall."

He shakily nods, releases his hold on the crypt grate so that it swings shut against the inner door, and then runs away over the turf as quickly as his tired legs can carry him.

_Campus... nearest phone... gotta tell Buffy, probably should tell Watcher first... n'less that fickle-hearted Olivia bird of his is in town and they're heatin' things up for Valentine's. Pro'ly stake me if I interrupt... better call Buffy... but shouldn't, pro'ly asleep by now... past one in the morning, I reckon... but gotta tell her... Cripes! What'm I gonna tell her?_

Reaching the outer fringe of the UC Sunnydale campus, he spots a flickering bulb above a slightly battered payphone booth and rushes for it. Snatching up the receiver, he freezes for a few seconds – just staring at it – before slamming in back down on the cradle.

"What the hell am I gonna tell her?" he mumbles aloud. "Lo, Buffy. Dru's back, wants to shag me... an' I can ruddy-well bet she'll start chattering on about the Poofter when we're halfway to happy, but a'least I _expect_ it from _her_, not... not like what you did to me. God, you can't even imagine how much it hurt me, luv..."

Too tired and hungry to muster up much anger, he leans against the Plexiglas frame of the partial booth and runs his thumb over the phone, still muttering under his breath.

"You say you feel _somethin'_ for me, just '_feelin's'_, no tellin' what they are. Half the time I wonder if the feelin's you can't manage to label are just loathin' an' disgust, then other times feels like _surely_ you love me... 'cept then you get this livin'-color image in your pretty head of the Watcher an' all your mates scowlin' at you, prattlin' on about my absent soul. I know you _want_ me the way any woman wants a man... Should've just kept my mouth busy givin' you pleasure 'stead of tryin' to beg a declaration of love out'a you... sometimes just feel like givin' up an' leavin' my broken heart in this soddin' town, scarpin' off to some other burg with a demon nightlife I can rough up. Sure you'll get along famously with Ben the bloody intern," he ends his rant with a nasal sneer, then momentarily rests his forehead against the Plexiglas. "God, I need a stiff drink and a good long fight..."

Slowly this time, he picks up the phone in one hand, and the other riffles through a pocket of his duster until he digs up three nickels. Just when he's about to shove the coins into the slot, he pauses again, squinting in the near-darkness to re-read the phone number on the box.

Then he laughs darkly – a broken, defeated sound, diaphragm thumping painfully against his lungs – and drops to a squat on the curb, holding his aching head. The receiver swings idly from the end of its cord as Spike continues laughing.

Because the payphone he's collapsed against is the same previously vandalized one he re-wired down to his basement.

* * *

Wiping tear-tracks off her cheeks, Buffy sits up in bed and runs both hands through her blonde mane. Another hour of lying awake has done nothing to alleviate her guilt. Every time she closes her eyes, the image of Spike's sunken ribs stares back at her as though it's tattooed on the insides of her eyelids.

Slipping out of her bed, she tiptoes down the hallway to the bathroom, turns the dial beside the sink faucet, and splashes coolness on her face. Handful after handful of water blends with the tears that continue to seep from her eyes. _How could I have been so blind?_

"Buffy?" says a small voice from her mother's bedroom.

Buffy's head jerks up, sniffling in an attempt to curb her tears. She quickly turns off the water, dries her hands and face, and moves back down the hall, pressing her palm against Joyce's door to ease it open.

"Hi Mommy. Sorry for waking you up. I know it's really late... or early, technically."

"Did you just get back?" asks Joyce, turning on her bedside lamp and gazing sweetly at her pjs-clad daughter. "I didn't hear the front door."

"Um, n-no, I... I got back about an hour ago. Can't sleep."

"Sweetie..." Mrs. Summers's vision finally adjusts to the dim lighting enough to see the redness around her daughter's eyes. "Baby, are you hurt?"

"N-n-no... not me..."

Buffy's chin trembles too much for her to speak any more, so she just crawls onto her mom's bed and nuzzles up next to her, trying to keep her rising sniffles subdued.

"Oh, honey," whispers Joyce, smoothing her daughter's hair away from her still-damp face.

"I don't know what to do." Buffy sighs heavily, rubbing the new moisture from beneath her eyes and unable to even remember the last time she cried in front of her mother. _I'm twenty years old and I have to fight monsters to the death almost every night. My sister's a key to some hell-bitch's home dimension, and everything from aliens to cancer nearly took my mom away from me. I almost made love with a demon tonight... and I wanted to... and he's killing himself over loving me..._

"Spike's been starving," Buffy mumbles ashamedly, choking out the words. "A-and not sleeping. Said he's lovesick, 'cuz he loves me and I don't love him back."

Joyce's brows narrow, pondering. If it had been Angel doing this – or even Riley – she would have labeled such actions as manipulative, trying to force Buffy into something about which she was hesitant. But Spike has proved himself too selfless for that.

"He cares about you very much," is all she says aloud, gently hugging Buffy's shoulders.

"I know. A while ago I might have said he couldn't love, because he has no soul... but now I know he can. He's completely capable of love and goodness. It must be _me_. _I_ can't love. I never loved Riley. Maybe being the perfect Slayer means being too hard to love at all. I already feel like I can hardly say the words, and even when I do, they're not sincere..." She remembers the brutal pain in Spike's eyes as he'd easily called her bluff.

"Buffy..."

Sitting up quickly, Buffy stares her mom in the eyes.

"Mom... I love you."

"I know you do, sweetie."

"I love you... love, love, love, love... Mom, it feels strange..."

"How so?" Joyce asks, scooping a few of her paperbacks off the bed onto her nightstand and sitting a little straighter as well. If she's honest with herself, she's been praying and yearning for such a mother-daughter talk with Buffy for years. Regardless of the supernatural tint to the subject matter, she's rarely felt this close to her elder daughter... her _real_ daughter.

"I don't know... but it's like the words have just lost their meaning, like I'm a robot just spouting what I'm programmed to say. Like I can't find the piece of my heart that supposed to back up the words."

"Is this because of something Riley said or did to you?"

"No... if anything, it goes back to Angel." _Doesn't everything go back to Angel?_ "I... I _thought_ I loved him... I _did_ love him and caused an icky, world-nearly-ending mess. Then when he came back, and I knew we couldn't ever _be_ together the same way, I tried to make myself _not_ love him even though I thought I still did. Maybe I overworked my love muscle and it shut down for good."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sure the figurative heart doesn't work that way. You have an endless love tank. You love me and Dawn and Giles and Willow and Xander..."

"I _know_... but I _don't_ know."

Leaning against Joyce's pillows again, Buffy pulls her thighs into her chest and drops her forehead against her knees.

"Mommy... Mommy, I'm such a horrible girlfriend... I won't even let myself _say_ girlfriend or boyfriend, in my head or in front of my friends... and I think I'm afraid, n-not of him, because I know he won't hurt me... I think I'm afraid to fall in love with another vampire."

"Because of Angel?" her mother infers.

Buffy nods shakily. "And I know it's a stupid fear, because Spike is completely different than Angel. He's different from every other vampire I've ever been around."

"That I'd have to agree with, though I certainly don't have as much, um, experience being around vampires as you do," smiles Joyce, remembering the night she'd first met Spike by name, and the random vampire that had attacked them. Even then – in the first hours of their truce – Buffy and Spike had worked as a perfect unit, fluid and complementary, the Slayer and the slayer of Slayers joined in a common cause.

"I don't exactly have primo vamp insight either, Mom. Most of the vamps I dust around here are fledges – newbie vamps, who have just gotten turned – who rise from their graves and have about fifteen minutes max of unlife before I find them, or they get away and bite somebody else, start the whole thing all over again. But from everything Giles has read and told me, older vampires just seem to get eviler with age, like The Master."

"Who?" Joyce queries, recalling this vampire being mentioned as one of the earliest foes Buffy had faced.

"He, um, was the Big Bad the year we moved here," Buffy explains, wiping her eyes again as her tears take a pause. "Had a big lair in the sewers. Coincidentally, he's the vampire who turned the vampire who turned Angelus, so he's like Spike's great-great-grandvamp. My point is... there's no vampire in _history_ like Spike. There's not a single 'good' vampire in all of Giles's Watcher Chronicle books, and even having a soul didn't make Angel 'good', it just made him into a rat-eating washout for about a century, until Whistler showed up and was like 'Hey, there's this Slayer girl. The Powers That Be say you should check her out and stop being such a loser'."

Mrs. Summers nods, though she has no idea who 'Whistler' is or what Buffy means by 'The Powers That Be'.

"So Spike _chose_ to be good?"

"Exactly... but it's not that simple either. That sounds as easy as Dawn picking out her cereal. 'Hmm, what to have this morning? Raisin Bran or Cheerios? Good or evil?' With Spike, it's him defying his primal nature, a whole half of himself, the half that's supposed to be in charge. For some vampires, having that demon inside them totally obliterates any humanity they had."

"That happened with Angel, didn't it?"

Buffy nods helplessly. Angel had admitted it to her, one of those nights in the mansion, that when the Judge – the Smurf-faced demon who could burn up the humanity inside anyone – had turned his hand on Angelus, there'd been no humanity to ignite.

"Without his curse, Angelus is pure evil," she answers, slipping into the present tense without even noticing, like the vampire who had sketched her while she slept, given Willow an envelope full of dead fish, and murdered Jenny Calendar had never been re-ensoulled. "He gets off on torturing and killing people, not being satisfied with a good fight, _May the best man or demon win_, like me and Spike. I don't know how to really explain..."

"I think you're doing splendidly, dear," Joyce smiles, rubbing her daughter's shoulders.

"Giles and Xander try to tell me Spike's only behaving good because of the no-fighting-no-biting chip the Initiative put in his brain," Buffy continues with greater boldness. "But... that's not it. I think I know exactly how Angelus would have reacted if the Initiative had caught and chipped him. He would have found a hundred ways to torment people without causing them physical pain directly, razed the town until the commandos either took the chip out or took _him_ out. But Spike adjusted, started getting bagged blood, went and fought demons even when we didn't ask him to. The way he treats you and Dawn and Tara is so above and beyond anything he'd feel obligated to do."

"He's showing how much he loves you, by caring for the people close to you," agrees Joyce. Buffy lowers her knees and turns to face her mother again.

"Spike... he _gets_ me, Mom. The whole me, Buffy _and_ Slayer. Riley never did, and certainly neither did Angel. To both of them, I was just the little girl who refused to be the proper damsel in distress and let the big strong boys do my job, slay the baddies, open jars, whatever. When Spike patrols with me, I never feel like he's overprotective or clingy or waiting for me to get hurt so he can say 'told you so, should've let me do it'. He's there because he loves being on my side, loves watching me fight... loves _me_."

"Sounds a lot to me like that feeling may be mutual," Mrs. Summers says quietly. She'd never _wish_ a vampire relationship onto her daughter, but the clear contrast she'd witnessed during her own time in the hospital – comparing Riley's selfishness and need for attention with Spike's unassuming helpfulness and occasional snarky encouragement – had firmly cemented Spike in her favor long before there had been any signs of him and Buffy as a couple. "It certainly seems like you've given your relationship with Spike a lot more mature thought than you ever did with Angel."

"There's the gospel truth," Buffy sighs. "I've gone from Thoughtless Girl to Over-thinking Girl. Wish I could find a balance."

"I'm sure you can, honey. Relationships take time, and often one person in the couple wants to move at a faster pace than the other. If Spike's pressuring you to do anything you're not ready for..."

"But he _isn't_. I mean... what he wanted to do was what I wanted to do..." _I cannot believe I'm nearly discussing sex with Spike with my mother..._ "The _thing_ wasn't the issue, it was me bringing up the 'can't love you 'cuz of no soul' deal. But I'm not even sure if that _is_ a deal to me anymore, because I know he's good. He's... kind and thoughtful and protective... and now I'm afraid I'll lose him unless I figure out how to love him soon."

"Oh, sweetie, I wouldn't worry about that," Mrs. Summers smiles. "To be fair to him, I think you _should_ make up your mind and not leave him in suspension forever, at least reassure him that he has a chance. But Spike's much, _much_ older than you, Buffy, and he was singularly faithful to that Drusilla woman for... a hundred years, right? Somehow I think being patient on your feelings for a few months isn't too unreasonable a thing to ask."

* * *

"Drusilla?" Spike whispers as he shoves open the crypt door, hospital-grade blood bags in hand. He'd stalked around in the dark streets of Sunnydale until nearly sunrise, by the smell of the air and the illumination filtering in through the crypt's bar-covered windows.

"My William smells like pain and sickness," she murmurs at him, sitting up on the sarcophagus she'd been using as a bed, her eyebrows tilting quizzically. "And not the lovely pain, nails scraping backs and fangs scraping throats... sheets and cool, slick bodies... I like that kind of pain..."

"Yeah, well, got your dinner," he mutters, tossing one of the packets so it skims the surface of the bier and comes to a rest beside her. She sneers disdainfully at his offered meal.

"Spike, blood doesn't come in plastic bags. Comes in _people_," she reproves, as though speaking to a small child.

"Well, I'm baggin' it lately." He stuffs three other packs into the drawer of his fridge and bites into the top corner of the final one, sipping slowly at the AB negative as though it's done him personal injury.

"Doesn't pretty Spike want to know why his princess has come back to him?" asks Drusilla, grinning gleefully.

"I 'spect you plan on tellin' me whether I want to hear or not."

"Yes, so listen like a good little boy. It all started when the pixies whispered in my ear that Grandmummy was home, but she was not strong and fast, and she was very ill, so ill that even nasty doctors could not take it away. Her little princess found her and _made_ her again, so she was Grandmummy and daughter all in one. And she wanted her precious Angelus to be her son and my Daddy, but Angelus would not be part of our family again, even though Grandmummy and I made merry in the town of the lost angels. Angelus got very angry with his princess and his Darla, and so we ran away to heal. And now I have come to my precious darling boy."

His head swimming to make meaning out of her bizarre babble, Spike slowly sits on the biers closest to the refrigerator.

"So... let me get this straight. Darla got mojoed back from the beyond, you vamped her, and now she and you are working on turning Angel into his own bad self again."

"Mm-hmm," grins Drusilla wickedly.

"Sounds fun," says Spike without much interest, just internally labeling his hated grandsire with a few unprintables as he drains the last drops of the plasma bag.

"It is. Like lollypops at the circus. Though... didn't care for Angelus setting us on fire," she ponders, dabbing at her cheek and upper chest. Half-healed and crusty burn marks discolor her pale skin, like craters on the face of the moon.

"And this has got you... what? All nostalgic now, has it?" demands Spike wearily, shrugging his duster from his shoulders. _Another sleepless night to the latest tally makes what? Six? Eight? Bugger if I even care anymore._

Drusilla approaches him, a jovial plotting smile on her lips, and threads her arms around his slender waist. She rotates her hips against his thigh in slow, sultry circles, nuzzling his neck.

"I want us to be a family again, my William. Come back with me..." she croons, lips at his ear.

Spike turns, separating them by a few inches. "To Los Angeles?"

She nods, eyes bright and eager, fingers moving to stroke his shirt collar, but Spike stands and shuffles into the middle of the crypt, arms crossed and shoulders hunched.

"I've done the whole LA scene, Dru. Didn't agree with me. Besides," he works a bit of bravado into his fatigued voice, "I've got a sweet little setup here in Sunny-D. Decent digs, not to mention all the tasty townies I can eat."

Retreating from her touch, he moves to his armchair and hunkers down there, his healing hand rubbing another insomnia-induced ache out of his forehead. Drusilla clucks at him, brushing her fingers together two-on-two.

"Naughty! Shh! You needn't make up stories. I already know why you're not coming. Poor boy..." She moves into his line of vision and presses her fingertips to her own forehead. "Tin soldiers put funny little knick-knacks in your brain. _Can't_ hunt!" She twitches her head violently, imitating the zapping pain that Spike experiences on a near-daily basis, though she's unaware of the more recent cause of his frequent headaches. "_Can't_ hurt! _Can't_ kill! You've got a _chip_."

Spike grouchily turns in his chair, semi-ignoring his love of a hundred years. When she reaches for his head, he springs up and backs away.

"Right, so you've heard?" he demands, kicking the edge of the trunk beneath his TV set. "Poor Spike's become a cautionary tale for vamps, right? Impotent. House-bred. Come all the way from LA to rub a little salt in my wounds, eh?"

She pouts, a petulant and condescending look that used to send him to his knees, make him beg her what he could do to set things right, to be her precious and favored lover again.

"You misunderstand, pretty Willy," replies Drusilla, catching up with him and holding tight to his hand, squeezing the reset knuckles in her ice cold fingers. "I don't believe in science, all those bits and molecules no one's ever seen. I trust eyes and heart alone. And do you know what mine is singing out right now?"

Despite his half-hearted resistance, Dru pulls his hand up and splays his fingers out over her silent heart, just below a residual burn mark. She stares into his eyes, and he cautiously meets hers, wary of her thrall ability – though she's never had the motive to use it on him since Angelus went over all ensoulled.

"You're a killer," she whispers eagerly, leaning into his hand above her breast. "Born to slash... and bash and... oh..." She gives a pleasure-drenched little gasp, her breath accelerating with excitement. "...Bleed, like beautiful poetry. No little tinker-toy could ever stop you from flowing."

Spike shakes his head, pulls his hand free of her long-nailed fingers, and stomps a few paces away once more.

"I _do_ still kill, lamb, just... not the edible bipeds. Become a bit of a demon bouncer, freelance."

"Not who you _are_, my William. My William the Bloody. My bad dog."

_Yeah, there's the truth, princess. I was your 'dog', all right, a hundred years a slave to a woman who would always love another first... and now look at me, right bloody doin' it again. Love's bitch if ever there was one._

"But the pain, luv..." he mutters, shaking his head but bringing no relief to his latest migraine. "You don't understand. It's searing, blinding."

She pursues, corners him beside the refrigerator, and taps her fingertips all along his scalp.

"All in your head," she murmurs, and for a moment Spike is unsure whether she's insisting the chip is a hoax or if she can actually detect the army bugger among his grey matter, if her little pixie informants have clued her in at last. He submits only slightly, bowing his head to give her better access to inspect him.

"I can see it. Little bit of plastic, spider-webbing out nasty blue shocks. And every one is a lie," she hisses in his ear. Her hand becomes a figurative spider, long bony fingers dancing against his gelled hair. "Electricity lies, Spike. It tells you you're not a bad dog, but you _are_."

"Not anymore, pet."

"You _are_. You're my bad dog and you must bite..."

"I _can't_," he growls a little, an exasperated glare in his eyes. Shaking free yet again, he leans against the bier beside the fridge. "So, you've filled me in on all the mischief you've been up to lately, 'cept for one thing, Dru. Train pulled in late the night before last. Yes, I know you snuffed those people, but guess I can't blame you for it, just your nature. But what I can't suss out is where'd you hide yourself all yesterday, Dru?"

"Spikey! I just _love_ what you've done to the downstairs!"

Eyes widening in sheer horror, Spike whips around towards the ladder and watches as a familiar ditzy blonde vampire flounces up the stairs, approaches them, and links elbows with Drusilla as though they've been century-long bosom friends.

"_HARM?!_ You pal'ed up with _Harmony?!"_

* * *

"Not gonna lie, the first Friday-at-eight-in-the-morning test must've been given by a demon under a glamour, who started this global trend of sheer suffering and despair," sighs Willow as she, Tara, and Buffy retreat from their literature classroom, their hands cramping after an hour of frantic writing.

"But, at least we can relax for the rest of the day and weekend," Tara points out, the most cheerful of the three. "I'm glad it's over with, and not hanging over us. Buffy?"

The Slayer glances between her close friends, both of whom had finished filling in their essay questions long before she had. She's fully anticipating a large D or worse to be scrawled over her exam when they get the results back on Tuesday, but her preoccupation has nothing to do with her failing grade.

"Sorry... what did you ask me?"

"Are you glad th-the test is over?" repeats Tara, suddenly aware of the decidedly morose look in Buffy's eyes.

"Yeah, I... I guess. Tests bad. Buffy not like."

"Maybe we could do a movie night, something Dawn-friendly?" Willow suggests, digging change out of her purse as they approach the vending machines. "You said Giles doesn't think we should pamper her anymore, but she'll never know as long as we pick something we all enjoy, right?"

Only half-listening, Buffy hangs back, arms crossed tightly around her stomach, as though to hold in the squirming knots of anxiety. Try as she might, she can't get the miserable image of Spike's starving figure out of her mind, the mix of acceptance and despair in his eyes as he'd said good-night to her in his car. Talking with her mom had helped some, but she's still in doubt regarding her own capacity to love, that muscle she feels must surely be too toughened to stretch anymore.

"_Wizard of Oz_ is one of her favorites, or _Sound of Music_," Tara agrees, responding to Willow but keeping her concerned gaze on Buffy. "What do you th-think about that?"

"That, um, that sounds nice," Buffy says in Tara's direction, not really sure what they're discussing. The witches exchange a look, now mutually aware of Buffy's melancholia.

"B-Buffy?" whispers Tara. "What's wr–... I mean, w-w-would you like to t-talk about it?"

"I don't know."

"How was your... um... Valentine's?" Willow asks gently, but then clamps her mouth shut when Tara's eyes widen warningly.

"It... Spike was... we..." Buffy chews on a nail, her thoughts unwilling to unscramble and form anything coherent, aside from the guilty truth. "It... was wonderful, really great... until my big mouth took a stroll down memory lane and brought up Angel right when we... right when it was all Valentine's-y."

"Oh," says Tara, not exactly sure what to assume but certainly understanding the gist. She molds her voice into a tone of utter sympathy, "Well, w-we all can tell Spike loves you v-v-very much. I'm sure he... he'll forgive you."

"Yeah... but I think I... I insulted him and as good as told him I couldn't love him. It was an accident, of course, but I treated... I've _been_ treating him so terribly, taking him for granted. And he... he hasn't been eating and I didn't even realize it."

"You _just now_ noticed that?" asks Willow with raised eyebrows.

"Will!" Tara gasps in a _'Sensitive, much?'_ voice.

"Being silently supportive friend now," mumbles the redhead, realizing her mistake. Buffy stares in near-outrage from her to Tara.

"You... you two knew he was starving?" At their shaky nods, she paces back and forth in front of the vending machine, trembling. "You saw... and Dawn kept saying things... am I the _only_ one who couldn't tell he was so upset he stopped eating?"

"We... we d-don't know _why_ he d-d-did it, if that's what you m-m-mean," Tara quickly intervenes between her blushing girlfriend and the seething Slayer. "He's just... looked th-thinner, ever s-s-since around the time th-the Watchers came."

"That was _November!"_ Buffy gasps loudly, and several students in the small queue waiting in line for the snack machine glance their way. As soon as Willow's little bag of pretzels comes clinking into the dispenser, she snatches it up and flees with Buffy and Tara into an adjoining hallway.

"So, just so we're all on the same page, he... he actually told you? He said 'I love you'?" Willow inquires.

"Yes! He says it all the time. He's been saying it for _months_, even when I was still with Riley."

"And he knew about it, knew Spike loved you," nods Tara, remembering that night she'd come upon the army brute thrashing Spike into a bloody pulp.

"Okay... oh wow," Willow says with a heavy sigh. "Well, I mean, I'm not gonna judge anybody on who they love. 'Cuz, you know, girlfriend of a werewolf, and now gay," she squeezes Tara's hand. "And Spike's been a wonderful guy for you, Buffy. He's awesome around Dawn and your mom and everything. Even Xander's warming up to him, I think. But... it's just... he doesn't have a soul."

"Hence me insulting him by comparing him to Angel and totally being the worse Valentine's Day date ever," Buffy concludes morosely. "I did get to talk to Mom late last night, so that helped some, but I'm still kinda in limbo-land about what to do. I don't want to say things I don't mean... but I _want_ to mean them and I don't know how. There's also a sore love muscle analogy."

Willow's eyes widen. "A... A _love_ muscle... sore...?"

"Figurative love and muscles," Buffy clarifies, deducing what has got her redheaded friend in panic mode. "As in, I don't think I make my pitter-patter-er love anything or anyone anymore because of being the Slayer, who's not _supposed_ to be with anyone. That was a lot of 'any's."

"Maybe this is something Giles c-could help you with," Tara suggests.

"Yeah!" chimes in Willow, dropping a couple pretzels as she waves her packet in excitement. "Some kind of Slayer-Watcher-y bonding. He probably knows all about things other Slayers have done if they've felt this way. Or maybe there's a magical cream for your sore love muscle. Say... I actually think I remember reading something in one of the Watcher diaries he let me look at."

"There _is_ a magical cream?" gawks Buffy.

"No! It's a quest."

"A quest? Like finding a grail or something?" Buffy asks, a hint of a smile returning.

"No, more like finding yourself, which sounds like just what you're after," replies the bubblier witch. "Slayers used it as like a recharging, refocusing thing. There's some sacred place in the desert. You and Giles would probably have to make a day-trip of it."

"I don't know... I shouldn't leave Dawn. Not with Glory looking for her and this weird mystery vamp who showed up on the train and is still roaming free."

"We c-could come over," offers Tara. "I promised Dawn I'd help her put up new posters in her r-room."

"Yeah! We could still have movie night, though there'd be Buffy-missage," Willow agrees.

Her hesitant smile now a full blown grin, Buffy hugs Willow tightly.

"I love you, Will. You know that, right?"

"Uh-huh! I love you too. Bunches."

Loosening the embrace, Buffy stares at her intensely.

"Willow, I love you... _really_ love you."

"Okay... gettin' kinda weird," Willow whispers, eyebrows wrinkling up in confused lines.

"Sorry. But it's important that I tell you. Weird love's better than no love."

* * *

_I've gone bug-shaggin' mad, gotta be it. Gone completely... bloody... stark ravin' 'round the bend._

"How'd you manage to leave _her_ out'a your tale a' woe, eh, princess?" Spike gawks, staring from his black beauty to the girl he's ashamed he'd ever allowed to be his rebound chick.

Drusilla sighs despondently and slithers her arm out of Harmony's. "Sometimes the pixies talk so loud I cannot hear her. It's delightful."

"Reckon so," Spike sighs. "Used to drink myself into a coma just to get a few hours peace."

Harmony pouts.

"I told you to stay in the cave while I talked to pretty William," mutters Dru. "Naughty, naughty girl, spoiling my tea party."

"Excuse me?" Harmony huffs, tossing her long hair. "It's my _lair_, hello! Not just a common _cave_. And I stayed there for ages and you didn't come back so I got bored. I knew you must be here, so I went through the sewers, which, by the way... _eww._ I think there's something dead in there, mixed in with all the crap. And I don't mean like normal crap, I mean like actual people crap from actual toilets. So glad I don't have to worry about that now, being a vampire and everything. Such a time waster. And Spikey, why'd you put a big ol' padlock on the tunnel door?"

_To keep out sods I didn't want to see, like... lemme think... you!_

"Oh, bloody hell," Spike mumbles, popping several knuckles against his own forehead. "Broke the thing, did you?"

"Uh-huh!" she nods proudly. "Nothing could keep me from my platinum baby! Especially if _she_" –Harmony points accusingly at Drusilla– "wasn't really who she kept saying she was, just some groupie Queen of the Damned dressing up as your precious Droodzilla."

"Harm, you moron, this _is_ Drusilla," sighs Spike exasperatedly.

"Well, yeah, I believed her, but I still thought it was awful of her to come showing up back here after all this time." She gives Dru a whiny sort-of glare. "After breaking my sweet Boo-boo's heart."

With skeptical amusement, Drusilla mouths '_Boo-boo?'_ to Spike, who just shrugs helplessly.

"Do you have any idea how hard it's been to break down the walls he put up after you left?" Harmony continues, ignoring the silent exchange. "I mean _serious_ trust issues."

"Harm, just shut up."

"See? _See?"_ The blonde ditz points between Drusilla and Spike. "I told you there was no use crawling back to him. Spikey don't play that game anymore, Morticia."

"_HARM!_" he yells, gripping her forearm and shaking her. "Will you just shut your gob? I broke up with you in soddin' October, after all. Got no hold over me."

"You meanie!" she glowers, yanking her arm free. She points down the ladder and starts crying melodramatically. "I can see the bed, Spike! Sheets all twisted and half-burned candles everywhere! I know you've got some new girlfriend and probably had a big sex fest last night for Valentine's!"

"Harmony, please just sod off... please," Spike mumbles wearily, sitting on the closest bier with his back to both of the female vampires. The intensity of his migraine has tripled since the second woman appeared in the upper level of his crypt.

"She is unhappy with your princess because I went with Grandmummy to the shops," Drusilla sighs, circling the sarcophagus and floating one hand along Spike's outer thigh, ignoring his small flinch as she touches him.

"Duh! You left me guarding your stupid hideout! And you kept hinting that you and that Darla freak were gonna give _my_ Blondie Bear a two-for-one deal!"

"Wouldn't have taken her up on it, Harm. I don't swing that way. Angelus would've jumped at it, but I... I won't." _Want one girl only... puttin' myself through a world of misery to get her, too._

"I _told_ you," Harmony sulks at Dru from Spike's other side, then running her hand up his arm and leaning against him. "So... baby, I know it'll hurt me to hear it, but I want to know... who're you dating now? Is it Sandy?"

"Who?" mutters Spike, vaguely remembering something having to do with Soldier Boy.

"She used to hang out a lot at that trashy demon bar. I know you saw her."

"Think that bird's dead, Harm. Ranks have thinned out lately."_ Thanks to me and my need to shred flesh when my heart splits and I drink too much_.

"Well, who is it then?" demands Harmony.

"The Slayer..."

"Dru?" Spike quickly glances up, staring into Drusilla's out-of-focus eyes, her voice higher and breathier than usual.

"The Slayer is coming... wandering over the moors with the carved stones and angels. She's coming for you, my Spike..."

* * *

A paper bag full of blood jars under her arm, Buffy steps out of Giles's sports car as it idles in the parking lot beside Spike's blacked-out DeSoto.

"Be back in a second," she nods.

"Of course, Buffy," her Watcher replies, adjusting his side-mirror and hoping he'd packed the correct magical gourd.

Steeling herself, Buffy traipses over the turf of Restfield Cemetery toward Spike's crypt and hesitantly knocks on the grate. _This is dumb. He's probably downstairs sleeping... I _hope_ he's sleeping..._

The hinges squeal and Spike's face appears, a woolen blanket held aloft over his head. His body blocks the small opening between the crypt door and the jamb.

"Buffy... unusual to see you 'round the graveyard in the daylight, luv. Anythin' the matter? No sign of that Glory bint?"

"No, thank goodness. I... I just wanted to tell you I'm... there's this quest, Slayer meditation quest. Giles and I'll be gone for the rest of the day, might be really late before we get back. S-so... I wanted to ask if you'd patrol tonight. Not anything overexert-y, just around here, maybe King's Bluff if you want. The gang can do some of the east cemeteries."

"Of course, pet. It's no trouble fillin' in on the destiny business."

"Oh, and here," she holds up the bag from the butcher's, and Spike relieves her of the burden, still keeping the door barely open. "There're four jars in there. The main street butcher was running short today. Tara said she'd run over to the butcher across town and bring that stuff by later. Dawn wanted to come, but I'm sure she'd... start asking uncomfortable questions about... our Valentine's."

"Nothin' uncomfortable about it, pet," he murmurs, voice slightly constricted. "Had a lovely night with you. Always... always love bein' with you, luv."

Buffy smiles tenuously, but it only lasts a moment. _Why does this parting seem so different, so much more permanent? I've gone days without seeing him before... why does this feel like a real good-bye?_ "I... I guess that's it."

"A'right. Hope you find what you're looking for."

She stares into his eyes, her own filling with the shimmering brightness that comes before tears. "Kiss for good luck?"

Immediately he lets the bag sink to the dirt beside his boots and threads both hands into her hair – ignoring the slight singeing as his skin leaves the protection of the crypt's doorway and is exposed to midmorning sun – and tilts her face up to his.

"Spike!" Buffy gasps, hearing the sizzling close to her ears. "Spike, you're burning!"

"Only a little," he murmurs. _It's my heart that's burnin' more than any bit of flesh_...

"Here."

She tugs open the button clasps of her brown suede coat and guides his hands inside, locking them tightly around her waist.

"Ta, luv," whispers Spike before cutting off any further protest by closing his lips against hers. Buffy wraps her arms around Spike's neck, partly to protect him and mainly to pull her body even closer to his, to carry the feeling of him with her through whatever tests and trials the quest will throw at her. He groans softly into the kiss, pouring in as much tender, desperate passion as he can.

"Love you, baby... whatever... whatever happens. Know that I love you."

"Oh, God, Spike!" she cries, smelling the sun's attack on his skin and hair. She pushes on his chest, shoving him back under the doorframe of the crypt. Both pairs of eyes are wet, Spike's tears turning to steam almost as soon as they escape his lids.

"You're ok-k-kay, right?" Buffy stutters, mopping her eyes with her coat sleeve.

"Yeah, just a bit bronzed, no harm done," he reassures her, shaking the smoke from his hands.

"I've... I've got to go. Giles is waiting."

"Nothin' like the fear of impatient Watcher to put a spring in your step," says Spike, forcing his stiff lips into a half smile. "Go on, sweetheart. Find the whatsit you're lookin' for."

"I'll be back tonight... I'll come see you..."

"If that's what you want," he nods. _Sod! Gotta get rid of Dru and Harm... all these skirts cloggin' up my crypt! And buy a new padlock..._

"I do! I... I want to see you. I'll... I'll come later. Good-bye!" Buffy nearly shouts the last word, turning on her heel and racing with Slayer speed back to the parking lot, heedless of any mourners who might be passing through the cemetery to adorn the graves of their loved ones.

Spike watches her run until she reaches at the parking lot and hops into Giles's convertible, before he shoves the crypt door closed and reluctantly turns around to deal with his exes.

"A'right, I stalled her. Slayer had no idea you lot were he– "

A clawed hand swipes across his face as Drusilla gives a cat-like snarl, three of her nails leaving long gashes in his cheek.

"Dru?!" Spike gasps, but then an open-palmed slap from her other hand turns his face back so he's looking straight at her.

"Bad boy! Little Willy has gone astray, played in the sunshine!"

Spike backs up before she can cuff his cheeks again.

"You left _me_, princess," he reminds her, rubbing at the bleeding gouge marks from her fingernails. "Shouldn't blame me for gettin' friendly with other birds. Wasn't that somethin' you said to me, eh pet? 'Got to find my pleasures'?"

"You had _me!"_ shouts Harmony. "The _actual_ girlfriend!"

Before Spike can turn to fully face her, a jolt of electricity a thousand times more powerful than the chip's blasts tears into his body. Yowling, he falls to the ground and spasms at Dru's feet, Harmony standing on her left side holding a cattle prod.

"What... what the...?"

"That's right, Spikey! That's for not appreciating me, after I gave and I gave and I gave! I gave you the best... _bunch of months_ of my life!"

"Harm... don't be stupid..." he warns, sitting up gingerly and eyeing the taser pole in her hands. "If that's even possible."

"Shall we tie him up and play with him a teensy bit first?" grins Drusilla, licking the tips of her fingers, watching Spike's every wince with pleasure in her gaze.

"Hey!" protests Harmony. "I keep telling you! No threesomes unless it's boy-boy-girl, or Charlize Theron."

"Bloody-well through playing," growls Spike, trying to stand.

"Put away our little toy, then," says Drusilla with a snarling smile. Matching her vindictive expression, Harmony powers up the taser again and jabs Spike just under the ribs.

"UUuhhh!" He gasps frantically as nine thousand volts pour into his body, limbs jerking only twice before he loses consciousness.

* * *

"This looks promising," says Giles, pulling his convertible around a dune and parking near the only scraggly tree they've seen for miles. Buffy remains in the passenger seat as he exits and moves to open the trunk.

"What'cha got there?" she asks absently, the first words she's spoken during the hour-long drive.

"Supplies."

"Oh, good. Supplies. Forgot about those. What, like food, water, maybe a compass?"

"What about a book, a gourd, and a bunch of twigs?" Giles replies, holding up the objects in question.

"I don't think I'll be that hungry," says Buffy with gloomy skepticism, opening her car door.

"They're for _me_. Come on, this way." He gestures across the sand to a flat spot beside some rugged bushes. "You see, the location of the sacred place is a guarded secret. I can't take you there myself. I'll have to perform a ritual to transfer my guardianship of you, temporarily, to a guide. Um... this'll do."

He kneels in the sand and begins arranging the sticks into a circle.

"A guide... but no food or water? So it leads me to the sacred place, and then a week later it leads you to my bleached bones?" inquires Buffy, eyebrows raised. _I told them I'd be back _tonight_! Willow and Tara are expecting me to come home to protect Mom and Dawn... and I have to see Spike... Oh God, Spike... burning himself over a good-bye kiss..._

"Buffy, please," Giles rolls his eyes. "It takes more than a week to bleach bones."

"Oh. So how's the ritual start?" she asks, moving closer to the ring of twigs.

"I, uh, jump out of the circle, and then jump back in it, and then, um... I shake my gourd," he answers, suddenly realizing how embarrassing it will be if any passing travelers happen upon them, particularly once he starts chanting in Swahili.

"I know this ritual!" Buffy announces, her formerly morose face twitching in a half-smile. "The ancient shamans were next called upon to do the hokey-pokey and turn themselves around."

"Go quest," mutters Giles with a sour look.

* * *

"_Buffy... run, luv... run..._"

"Hey! Spikey's waking up!" an irritatingly familiar voice grates on his ears.

Slowly regaining control of his faculties, Spike opens his eyes, and the shimmering images of Drusilla and Harmony come into focus. He's fairly certain night has just fallen, though it's harder to tell in the lower level of the crypt. His hands are shackled at shoulder height, the chains threaded through the holes in the stone wall he'd drilled for the upstairs cables to pass through, so that he's trussed against the wall close to his shower.

"There's my darling boy," croons Drusilla. She reaches forward and trails her fingertips over the cuts she'd made on his cheek, before turning back to frown at Harmony. "My poor Willy was asleep so very long. The next time he is a bad boy, only a _little_ zap-zap for his punishment."

"Yeah, whatever, I turned down the power," retorts Harmony, rolling her eyes and perching on the end of the unmade bed. "I don't _think_ it'll knock him out again, but I'm not really sure how it works."

"So that's your plan?" Spike snorts, testing the strength of the manacle around his right wrist. "Chain me up and torture me 'till I go back with you? Why does that sound so bloody familiar? An' where in soddin' hell did you get a _cattle prod?_" he scoffs at Harmony, who just gives him a simpering sneer from across the room.

"My gang stole it," she replies proudly, but a moment later a pout returns to her face. "My totally awesome, loyal minions... and then your precious Buffy staked them all! I worked really hard to become her archnemesis, and then the _one night_ after I see you, everything gets screwed up! I can't believe it took me this long to figure it out! You told her all about my plan, didn't you?"

"What plan? You're not even _capable_ of sussin' out a plan, Harm. Got nothin' but cotton between your ears! That's why I soddin' _broke up with you!"_

"Not so, my pretty Spike," Drusilla whispers in a tone of part amusement, part accusation. "Not the nasty chattering that drove you away... It's _her_... the girl..."

Without warning she dissolves into amused cackles, head thrown back and eyes popping. Harmony stares at her with slight concern, raising the taser stick.

"Could do without the laugh track, Dru," grumbles Spike, subtly working his wrists against their shackles.

"But it's so funny," giggles Drusilla, her voice taking on its higher, ethereal quality while still retaining a mocking tone. "I knew... before you did. I knew you loved the Slayer. The pixies in my head whispered it to me. They floated around, lifting me into the air and singing... that my dear boy had run off to soak in the sunshine, to be living ashes. I could taste them..."

"_Taste ashes?_" repeats Harmony, confused. "Like, eww!"

Spike glowers at them both, then gives a heaving sigh of defeat. "No use mockin' me 'bout it. Yeah. I love her, the Slayer. Doesn't matter. Girl can't find it in herself to love me back. Thinks I can't really love properly without a soul."

Drusilla smiles knowingly, gliding first a finger up and down Spike's t-shirt, then repeating the motion with her palm. "We _can_, you know," she whispers, as though to someone unfamiliar with vampires instead of a creature of the night himself. "We can love quite well... if not wisely."

Her heavily-lidded eyes rise to his, both hands now caressing him more forcefully. Spike trembles as she works his shirt up out of his belt and drags her nails underneath it, up his chest.

"Dru..."

"Shh! No talking. Look at me..."

She raises a hand, two red-tipped fingers extending before his eyes.

"Oh God, no, Dru... please, no..."

"Shh!" she growls, smacking him with her hand before targeting his eyes with her hypnotic fingertips and softening her voice once more. "You will be mine once again, my darling, deadly Spike. We will blot out the little sunshine and drink from all her veins. Look at me. Be in my eyes... Be in me..."

"Dru, please..." he moans, voice slurring as, helplessly, he begins to succumb to her power. "Baby..."

"Be in me, Spike..."

"I thought I said no threesomes!" interrupts Harmony, sulking in the background. "If anyone's frisking Blondie Bear, it should be me!"

Drusilla's eyes flash with anger, shifting just slightly away from Spike's, and the lull in her concentration is all he needs to snap free of the thrall. He yanks against one side of the chains and roars as his thinner-than-usual right hand grates through its handcuff. Drusilla backs up to where Harmony stands, cattle prod at the ready.

"Not nice to change the game in mid-play, Spike. You've taken my chair and the music hasn't stopped."

"Sorry, pet," he grunts, tugging his other hand free and rubbing his sore wrists, leaving the manacles to swing and clang against the stone. "My house, my rules."

"You're a bad, bad boy. Makes his princess very cross," she pouts, then grins with reignited mischief. "I shall have to hurt you, pretty Spike. Daddy taught me how to beat you, to smash and bash the naughty, nasty little mutt until he lay quiet and did what he was told."

"Not your slave anymore, Dru. I'm my own bloody man. Do as I like."

"C-c-can I totally zap him now?" Harmony demands, clearly having no desire to be the archnemesis in charge.

"I've had just about enough of _both_ of you!" snarls Spike. He grabs a handful of Harmony's hair and hurls her away towards the ladder, then pushes Dru to the side of the bed so he can hurl open the lid of his weapons' chest and draw out a stake. Harmony squeals at the sight of the wooden implement in his hand.

"Spikey! Hey, I can be reasonable! I'm _totally_ reasonable!"

"You're an _idiot_, Harm. I should'a staked you the moment I saw you!" he retorts.

Perplexingly, a devious smirk appears on Harmony's mouth the closer he steps to her, but just as he decides to turn around, bony fingers with razor-sharp nails close around his neck. He freezes, knowing how deadly those nails are, should she choose to use them.

"Naughty... delicious Spike," trills Drusilla, lips grazing the back of his ear, one hand closing around his throat as the other slips around to stroke his stomach. "Delicious..."

Her fangs descend, piercing deep into the hollow of his shoulder. He gasps and jerks, but it only makes her bite harder, pulling his t-shirt collar aside for greater access. His eyelids flutter closed, her bite as strong as any thrall. Legs buckling, he falls to his hands and knees in front of the ladder, his sire still clinging around his back, drawing blood from his throat.

"Drusilla..." he moans, still holding the stake in shaking fingers. "Dru... my princess..."

"Hush now," she whispers through jagged teeth, licking the fresh bite mark and then stroking his jaw with her lips and teeth. "You are mine again... your body and heart belong only to me, to your dark goddess... your maker..."

"Yes..."

"Hey!" whines Harmony, but they ignore her.

"Never wanted the sunshine, did you, my William?" Drusilla breathes, fangs and ridges retracting as Spike stands, new power in his eyes, like an anointed knight, ready to serve his lady's bidding.

"Never... never stray from you... my black beauty... my Drusilla..."

Grinning in triumph, she caresses his chest, and his face lights up in a wicked smile.

"There you are, dear Spike..."

Dru flings herself on him, hands gliding up his sharp cheekbones and into his hair, kissing him deeply, strong enough to bruise. Moaning, he puts an arm around her waist and pulls her tightly against him, returning her kisses with unrestrained passion.

If she feels the tears start to seep from his eyes, she feels them too late.

He raises his other arm, and then – though it defies his nature, though every sinew of his being screams in protest at this breach in the unholy but powerful blood bond between sire and childe – he drives his concealed stake into Drusilla's chest, and her dust coats him like dry raindrops.

A pause, brief as a heartbeat, settles over the crypt, and then Harmony screams and scrambles backwards up the ladder. Eyes turning gold, Spike follows and catches hold of her ankle as the rest of her body reaches the top floor. Tripped, she lands on her face and screams again.

"Let go! Let go!"

Spike releases her only when he stands on the top rung of the ladder and watches her cower away from him until her back slams into one of the stone caskets. Looking every inch a bloodthirsty demon, he advances on her, grips a fistful of her hair, and holds the point of the stake over her chest.

"Oh God! Spike, don't! Don't stake me!"

"Shut... your sorry mouth, Harm..." he spits out, flashing his fangs. "Now... you crawl back to Darla... and tell her, if you two worthless bints manage to turn Angel back to his havoc-wreaking self, I'll come down to LA... and stake the 'ole lot of you myself. Are we clear, _pet_?"

He grinds out the last word through his teeth, no hint of the fondness he usually applies to that nickname around Buffy or Dawn.

"Uh-huh!" sniffles Harmony desperately, her eyes watching the stake and her hands attempting to cover up her heart, though Spike could easily drive the wood through both palms if he wanted to.

"Get the hell out of here, then," he orders, each word a growl. "I see you again, I dust your whorin' ass. You hear me?"

"Uh-huh! Uh-huh!" she repeats, streams of mascara-tinted tears running down her cheeks. "Ow!"

She squeals in pain as he yanks her up by her hair and flings her toward the crypt door. Managing to find her footing, she tugs the door open and streaks away into the night, and with a soft _clang_ the door closes, leaving Spike in the near-darkness. His human visage slips back into place, and the stake clatters to the ground as his fingers lose the strength to hold on any longer.

"Oh... oh, dear God... what have I done...?"

His knees crash to the floor, and his whole body crunches over as though a fatal wound has torn through his abdomen. Dropping his forehead to the dirt-speckled stone, Spike weeps over the dust on his hands, filling the mausoleum with his agonized howls. He doesn't even hear the door hinges squeal again moments later, nor the witch's soft footsteps entering the crypt.

"Spike, I... I th-think I just saw H-h-harmony. What was... Spike? Spike, oh... oh God..."

* * *

"Wills?" murmurs Buffy, unlocking the front door and hanging up her coat. A glance at the clock in the dining room informs her it's half-past-one in the morning.

"Shh-shh!" Willow pleads in a desperate whisper, rushing in from the kitchen and blocking Buffy's access to the living room. "Hey! You're back! Looking kinda tan from your desert adventures! So... how was the Slayer-y vision quest?"

"Some vision quest," she sighs, wondering why her friend has such a wide-eyed look. "Giles did the hokey-pokey. Except there was a lot of hokey and not so much pokey. Then I wandered around for a while in the same desert I saw in my dream that the First Slayer invaded, and then _poof_, mountain lion guide turned into First Slayer guide, queen of cryptic nonsense. 'Death is my gift.' Pffh. I hope they attached the receipt. What's...?"

Her voice vanishes as she glances over Willow's shoulder into the living room. Spike is sitting on the couch, hunched over and faintly moaning, rocking in place with his arms cradling his head. Tara sits on the edge of the ottoman, gently stroking his hair and whispering something in a language Buffy doesn't recognize.

"What's wrong?" demands Buffy quietly. "What happened to him?"

The blonde witch looks up with a tear-streaked face as she finishes her spell, meeting her lover's gaze and helplessly shaking her head.

"We don't know," Willow whispers, interpreting. "He hasn't spoken to anyone since he got here, not even to Dawn or your Mom. He just mumbled your name a bit, but that's all we could get out of him."

Tara stands, brushing her fingertips over the crown of Spike's head one last time before joining the other two young women in the foyer.

"I... I th-think he m-m-might be drunk, b-b-but he d-doesn't smell like it," she stutters, wiping her eyes and pulling Willow into a hug. "I d-did a spell to t-t-try to calm him. It... it was s-s-selfish of me. I... I couldn't t-t-take it... Buffy, he's in so m-much pain..."

Her shoulders shake with fresh tears, and Willow squeezes her, her eyes also brimming.

"I've got to get her home," she explains to Buffy, her tone apologetic. "Empathy..."

"Of course... I'll call you tomorrow. Thanks for being here for Mom and Dawn... and Spike."

Grabbing both their coats, Willow guides Tara through the front door, and Buffy locks it behind them before slowly approaching the vampire. She sits beside him on the sofa, waits a few moments, and then hesitantly rests her hand on his mid-back. His entire body flinches, and she withdraws her hand, perplexed and saddened.

"Spike?"

His head jerks up, so much grief in his blood-shot eyes that Buffy gasps. His left cheek bears three thin scratch marks, and she can't tell whether or not they're self-inflicted.

"Bu... Buffy?" he groans, voice husky and hoarse.

"It's me," she urgently nods. "Spike, what's happened? Are you hurt? Spike...?"

"It was Dru." His jaw shakes so much he can barely force out the words, and his eyes lower to his own trembling hands as he struggles to speak. "Came on the train... killed the passengers. It was her, should've known from the start. She... she came to me... and I... I staked her. I... staked... her... Oh, God, Buffy, I've killed Drusilla..."

Breaking down completely, he sinks into a crumpled heap at her knees and bawls, rough sobs shaking his form. Utterly shocked, Buffy wraps her arms around him, and for once _she_ is the comforter, kissing his hair and gently rubbing his back with her knuckles. He moans into her knees, his chest heaving with lung-bursting cries of agony.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	24. Chapter 24: Recovery

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thank you _TieDyeJackson, Vivi H88, Fallen Priestess, CailinRua, DarkEternity96, HaleKent, Spuffylover, zozoer123, Da0122, ObsessedwReading_, _Secret Slayer_, _randyzoopurple_, and _Breezybiatch _for your reviews! And a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has followed or favorited me! I've been in the process of prepping my parents' house to be sold and also moving back to college. My updates should be back to their usual roughly weekly schedule now, hopefully.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "I Was Made To Love You", also some from "Intervention", both script and transcript quotes, lyrics from Switchfoot's "You", and one sneaky _Firefly_ quote. Mostly hurt/comfort sappy stuff and a teensy bit of near-smut, then a dive into pseudo-canon.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Drusilla's surprise appearance coincides with Buffy feeling especially guilty about how she's treating Spike and doubting her own ability to love. She embarks on a hokey-pokey Slayer quest, where the First Slayer comes to her in a vision and pronounces, 'Death is your gift'. Meanwhile, Drusilla and Harmony gang up on Spike, and Dru attempts to put Spike under her thrall, but he resists and stakes her. Buffy returns from her confusing quest to find Tara comforting a grieving Spike._

* * *

Chapter 24: Recovery

_Death was not so painful the first time_, is Spike's first thought upon waking.

He blinks, yet only utter blackness greets his eyes. The hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, Spike reaches up – trying to rub his sore head – only for his hand to be blocked by a solid surface just mere inches in front of him... or is it above him?

Between the darkness and the intense ache in his head, his bearings refuse to come into focus, and all he can make out is that he seems to be lying down. He stretches out one foot and finds a wall just shy of his toes, and by slowly rotating his arms he feels out similar surfaces on his sides, against his back, and just above his head.

With a low, instinctive snarl, he vamps and takes a long breath through sensitized nostrils. The air is stale, hours old, and slightly earthy, like worms and moss. His fingertips probe the walls boxing him in on all sides, feeling the grainy texture of wooden slabs.

A crate... a makeshift coffin... entombed beneath the earth...

Buried alive, in the figurative sense at least.

_Can't suffocate, don't need air, for God's sake don't panic_. He tries to reason with himself, but the physiologically ingrained needs of a human still drive his system, forcing his unnecessary breaths to speed up. Starting to sweat as the adrenaline kicks in, he shoves at the box interior, nails scratching the wood fibers, ripping and clawing.

_Not right_, his mind argues as he shreds at the wood, ignoring bursts of pain in his fingers as splinters gouge their way into the sensitive pads. _Feels deeper, darker... the sod barely covered the top last time, wasn't so heavy..._

With a grinding _crrrreeeeeak_, he pries out an entire length of board from the ceiling of his prison and a rush of dirt caves in on his chest and face. Blinking and coughing, he shoves the small avalanche toward his feet and hacks at the earth above him, pulling more soil down on himself. Digging, slashing, and wrenching away more bits of the crate, he forces his way up and out from between the slabs of wood and the layers of organic matter until his broken, bleeding fingers break the surface of the soil and he gasps a breath of cool night air, moist with rain.

_"Naughty! Bad dog!"_

His eyes flash up – six more feet up – to see Drusilla floating around the edge of the hole in the earth where his deep grave lies. Ghostly pale, her cream-colored dress reflecting the moonlight, she glares down at him with unveiled hate in her dark eyes.

"Dru?"

He wrests with the dirt and crate remains, but even when he rises to his feet, the debris still comes all the way up to his waist. The moment he begins to look up again, a shovel-full of damp dirt rains onto him, peppering him like a shotgun blast.

_"That's right! Stay down! A bad little dog knows to stay down when he's kicked!"_

"Dru!" he coughs, spitting soil out of his mouth. He holds his arms above his face to protect himself from the moist clods of earth she's dumping down on him. "Dru, stop!"

_"The bad dog must pay for running away and leaving his princess! He must stay down in the darkness, where he belongs, my dark little prince. No sunshine for him. Bury him deep down where the sunshine will never reach him."_

"Dru, stop! Drusilla! _Please!"_

With a small strangled gasp, Spike lifts his head from Buffy's lap.

His wide eyes stare around the Summers' downstairs floor as if to reassure himself that the stimuli from all his senses isn't lying to him, that he's really there and not asphyxiating somewhere under a torrent of shoveled earth. The rain is real, steadily beating against the living room window. The largest drops _plunk_ on contact with the glass and seem to sound like heavier objects, like dirt clods.

"Spike..."

Buffy's voice breaks into his mind, shattering his fear, shattering him. He finds her jade eyes despite the room's near-darkness and tries to smile with relief, but can't quite make his face obey his bidding. Somehow, she understands his attempt.

"Hey," she beams, then returns instantly to a sober expression, realizing that glib smiles are inappropriate right now, in the aftermath of his obvious grief.

"Buffy." His voice sounds sandpaper-rough in his own ears and tastes like chalk passing through his throat. "Did I wake you, baby?"

Buffy's lips pinch together guiltily. She hadn't even realized _when_ or _if_ she'd really fallen asleep. All she can remember for hours after she'd come home is sitting here, stroking his hair and letting his tears soak the kneecaps of her pants. With some slight shifting, she had ended up slumped against the decorative pillows on one side of the couch and had drawn him with her until his pale head rested high on her thighs, keeping his soft curls within reach. His hair looks distinctly greasy, either from her hands running through it all night – probably even in her sleep – or because he's so overstressed and malnourished that his scalp has had a Mid-Unlife Crisis and begun producing oil again.

"I wasn't much with the sleepy last night. You were... um... talking, a lot... and, well, crying."

He hangs his head shamefully, but at her light tug to his hair, he dares to look up again. Her eyes are warm, welcoming, and more purely loving than any look Drusilla had given him in a century.

_What do words matter, really? Plain as the nose on her face what she feels for me... an' blimey, I love her little nose..._

"Sit with me?" she asks, one hand smoothing back the bleached curls she had mussed into a sexy disarray.

Nodding, he stands slowly – his thighs and calves stiff from the sleepless hours of squatting and kneeling – slides one shin against the back of the couch, and surrounds her with his arms. Her hands and cheek nuzzle the black cotton covering his chest, and he draws in the first full, deep breath he's managed to take since waking, the tension in his body starting to melt away at her touch.

"So... Sleepless in Sunnydale, eh?" he murmurs, lips coasting across her forehead.

"Yeah, pretty much."

"I'm so sorry, luv."

"I didn't mind. Are you... okay? Sounded like a pretty vivid nightmare."

He weaves his fingers into her satiny blonde mane and presses a few feather-light kisses to the top of her head before answering.

"Dreamed I was dyin'... and comin' back. Forgot how bloody terrifyin' it was, bein' buried alive. Well, _alive_ as I can be, seein' as I'm dead."

Buffy strokes her hand down his firm, slightly cold chest, feeling it gently expand and contract with the pace of his breaths. Aside from the lack of a heartbeat and the lower temperature, it's impossible to associate the man in her arms with the corpse he would be if not for the demon blood in his veins.

"An' then Dru was there, shovelin' more dirt down on me," he continues, throat tightening. "Callin' me her _bad dog_ and keepin' me from gettin' to my sunshine... my precious, darling sunshine..."

His voice catches on _darling_, and the grief-stricken endearment seems to have a direct line to her tear ducts. Her eyes instantly well up and overflow as she clasps her arms around his chest, squeezing him tightly, feeling his arms reciprocate. His own eyes hurt too much to release any more tears.

"She's gone, luv," he rasps, his trembling hands pressing against her shoulders. "She's really gone... she can't hurt us anymore."

"She's still hurting _you_," Buffy whispers back, lifting her head to see the mostly healed scratch marks on his cheek and the fang punctures in his neck. It's less glaringly violent and clumsy than the mercy bite he'd received from the prostitute vampire, but is still red and raw, and with a quiver of dismay she wonders if it will scar.

_Oh, wait... she _already_ scarred him there..._

"It'll heal, pet," he shrugs. "I've had worse." _Though what Soldier Boy did to my body doesn't quite compare... Never knew it could feel like my heart's bleedin' on the inside..._

"God, I hope not," says Buffy, drying her eyes with the heel of one hand. His mouth curves into a wretched smile.

"Can't fool you, baby. Know me more honestly than I know myself. Yeah, I s'pose it'll ache for a bit. But... it's better this way. Means I'm yours, nothin' can ever take me away from you. Just... pierces a little close to the heart, you know?"

She nods against his chest, remembering the radioed police report about Riley's body... but Riley had never been to her anything close what Drusilla had been to Spike. It was like comparing a teeny-bopper summer fling with an old married couple, if said couple usually spent date nights ripping out people's throats.

"Well, by royal Slayer decree, no more heart-piercings," she smiles and wipes away the last of her impending tears.

He gives one dry chuckle, kisses her forehead again, and glances toward the dining room, vampire vision narrowing on the clock.

"It's only ten after six, sweetheart. Want to kip for a few hours, make up for the rest you didn't get?"

"Nah, Mom'll be up soon. I'll just get her coffee started, and blood for you. Did you... have you drunk anything since...?"

_Since that night in your crypt... when I was a total bitch... was that _really_ only the night before yesterday?_

Spike shrugs as he stands up, rubbing his neck, brows narrowing in the attempt to process the previous day's events – and skip over the more painful parts.

"I drank what you made me drink, and went by the hospital like you ordered." He momentarily grins at the predictable pout on her face when he uses the term _ordered_. "Then had a donated bag, put a few more in the fridge." _And the one Dru didn't drink..._ "Uh, and I'm sorry, pet, but the jars you brought me from the butchers might've been left out to spoil. I was a little electrocuted at the time."

Buffy stares wide-eyed at him, realizing why he'd barely opened the crypt door when she'd stopped by on her way to the desert with Giles, why he'd kissed her so desperately. _Creepy Riddle Queen was there... and she knew, realized his heart didn't belong to her anymore, that he'd never be her 'dog' again..._

"That's... that's okay. I kept half here. Did Tara bring you the –?"

"Oh God!" he suddenly gasps, a hand flying up to cover his mouth and then rake through his hair. "Poor sweet Tara... all evenin'... Buffy, if she was feelin' even _half_ of what I... oh God, I'm such a brute..."

"No, Spike, no. Don't do this to yourself..."

"She found me not a moment after I'd... I'd done it, right when my heart was rippin' in half. And then she an' Mum an' Dawnie sat with me here, the whole time, cryin' for me and not knowin' why, but I just couldn't say it..."

"Spike, stop," Buffy pleads, shoving off of the couch and gripping his quaking arms.

"I _am_ a monster... for puttin' them through that with me. Oh, poor Tara..."

"They _wanted_ to be with you, be here for you. I just feel bad that I _wasn't_. That I was off on the dumb quest when you needed me. Spike, look at me."

His red-rimmed eyes guiltily meet hers, and Buffy cups his face in her hands, preventing him from looking away again.

"You. Are. _Not._ A. Monster," she says, each work striking the air with deliberate force. "You are full of love. And... and sometimes love is painful, but it still gives us strength."

The First-Slayer-vision-guide's words echo in Buffy's head, ringing more true than she realized at the time. "_You love with all your soul. It's brighter than the fire... blinding. That's why you pull away from it. Love... give... forgive... Love will bring you to your gift... Death is your gift."_

"Remember that night that you told me you thought maybe you still had a soul, or something to let you love as strongly as you do, but I said it wasn't possible?"

"I do, luv. What's...?"

"Well, I... I've changed my mind, I think. Or at least I... I don't care that you don't have a soul," she blurts out, then puckers up her forehead, thinking. "No, that's not quite what I mean... I think what I mean is you have more heart and more love than anyone I know, even... even the vampire _with_ a soul. 'Cuz he was weak and ran away from love, and you fight for it, kicking and screaming. You're the only man who's ever done that for me."

"It's 'cause I'm in love with you, Buffy, an' come hell or high water, I'll do anything to prove it to you."

Both sets of eyes are shining with moisture again, and Buffy leans closer to him, arms around his neck and elbows on his shoulders. _I'm in love with you too, Spike. I know I am... but my stupid throat keeps closing up when I try to say the words..._

"Spike, I... I hope you know how much I care for you."

"Yes, luv, I do. It's alright. Don't need to hear you say any particular words. I can see it formin' in your beautiful eyes, so as long as I get to keep lookin' at it, an' it keeps growin', that's far more than I deserve."

"Well, then you will. And anything that tries to take you away is gonna have to face one very ticked-off Slayer."

Blinking away a few more tears, Buffy stretches up on tiptoe to kiss his reddened eyelids, and his arms catch around her waist, holding her up, chest to chest. Spike playfully smoothers her with quick, wet kisses, tickling down her neck until she wriggles frantically, trying to suppress loud laughs.

"Stop! Put me down before we wake the whole house! Spike, st– whoa..."

Her giggles are lost in a breathy moan, her hips lifted at just the right position to feel him rapidly hardening, straining his jeans against the front of her brown slacks._ And _that's_ why they call him Spike..._

Chagrinned, he quickly lowers her to her feet but maintains his tight hold around her body, the evidence of his desire now jutting against her stomach.

"Cripes," he groans into her hair, gasping nonessential air into his lungs. _One kiss an' I go from perfectly relaxed to hard enough to feel every soddin' notch in my zipper... _"Not quite sure what happened there, luv. Didn't plan to... you know."

"You are a _very_ impressive man," she murmurs. "You did zero to sixty in point three seconds."

He chuckles breathily. "Vampire. I'm just naturally peerless in anythin' havin' to do with blood. Coffee for mum, then?"

"Yes," she nods as his arms set her free, "and quick, before we die of the lust measles."

"_Lust measles_," he guffaws, shaking his head at the ceiling while she scurries into the kitchen and flips on the overhead light. "Slayer, you are, without a doubt, the silliest and most adorable thing that ever butchered the Queen's English."

Beaming ear-to-ear, she bustles around the kitchen, extracting a coffee filter, a spoon, and creamer from various drawers. Spike follows her in – with a noticeably stiff-legged gait – and takes down two black mugs.

"Might have a cuppa myself."

"Blood first," urges Buffy. "With nothing but caffeine in your system you'll be bouncing off the walls."

Spike murmurs something under his breath that sounds distinctly like, "_could bounce _you_ off the walls, lover_," but concedes and pulls a jar of viscous, ruby plasma from the refrigerator. He leaves one of the black cups by the coffeemaker, fills the other with blood, sets it in the microwave, and taps the right combination of buttons to warm his beverage to 98.6 degrees. Then he leans against the counter until Buffy's finished tampering with the coffeemaker.

"So, pet, what'cha going to do to me once I fill up?" he smirks, letting his tongue linger between his teeth. His right thumb hooks through his jeans belt loops and highlights his taut crotch area, and Buffy blushes.

_When did that move go from 'eww, gross, you sicko' to 'panty-drenching sexy'? And I just described Spike as 'panty-drenching sexy'. Reason has officially left the building._

"Uh... I could tell you about my quest thingy," she offers quickly, watching the caffeine-imbibed water drip into the pot. "Although, there isn't really much to tell. Basically, Giles and I parked at the corner of No and Where, and he hokey-pokeyed until this mountain lion showed up."

"Wait... _Watcher_ danced the bleedin' _hokey-pokey?_ Snap a photo, by chance? That kind of blackmail'd be priceless."

"No," she giggles. "I should've, though. What a wasted oppor– Spi-i-ike..."

Her tone turns into a half-hearted warning as he slips an arm around her shoulders and draws her into his side. "Mom and Dawn are right upstairs."

"Not gonna try anythin', sweetness. Just want to hold you."

"Mmm, good." She winds her arms around his ribcage before continuing. "So the cougar kitty led me to this rocky spot that I saw in the dream I had after Giles, Willow, Xander, and I merged our essences to take out Adam. I waited around for a while and maybe fell asleep, but then all of a sudden there was this flicker-y, dance-y fire and the First Slayer went all blah-di-blah-di-blah, 'Death is your gift', and vanished."

"_That_ was the pot of gold at the end of the quest's rainbow?" he asks skeptically. "Just a primal vision creature sayin' 'Death is your gift'?"

"Pretty much."

"Soddin' rip-off. Sorry you had to waste all the time."

"I'm sorry I wasn't here when you needed me."

He rubs her upper arm gently while watching his cup of blood rotating around in the microwave, and Buffy rests her face against his shoulder. She's never been a touchy girl like Dawn, but there's just something comforting about his cool, strong body – his height a perfect fit for hers, his skin giving off his trademark woodsy musk that both relaxes and excites her.

"Maybe... maybe it meant Dru, me killin' her for you," he suggests in a grim whisper. "Maybe that's the gift, 'cause I'm severed from her now, completely yours."

"It's not a gift for me if it causes you pain. Buffy presents must be entirely Spike-pain-free, and accidental pit-bull leg-nipping doesn't count, because those flowers and chocolates were _amazing_ birthday presents."

"Not sure mystical vision guides and prophecies abide by our sorts of rules, luv. I _hope_ it means more, makes your trip worthwhile and such, but... 'twas just a thought. A possibility."

They're silent for a few moments, listening to the rain steadily lashing the windows, the microwave whirring, and the trickling of the coffee.

"She threatened you," murmurs Spike. "Dru. She threatened to hurt you, take you from me."

"Spike, you don't have to tell me..."

"I want to, luv. Want to get it all out an' then put her an' everything she ever was to me behind me. She chained me up an' started doin' that soddin' thrall of hers. Don't think even the chip's put my noggin in so much pain. Only thing that kept me fightin' and kept me free was hearin' her goin' on about what she was gonna do to my beautiful sunshine."

He threads both hands through her golden hair and draws her even closer until their foreheads touch, his voice saturated with anxiety at the memories.

"If she'd got her claws all the way into my head, made me hurt you..."

"The chip would have stopped you," Buffy reassures him.

"I hate that, though. That you'd have to fall back on a bleedin' piece of government hardware to rein me in if somethin' messed with my head and put the demon in charge. Wish I could just promise I'd never do anything to harm you or Dawnie or anyone you love, but the thrall... I barely kept my wits. Felt like she was chainin' up my mind an' heart as well as my arms."

His eyes drift to his chaffed wrists, greatly healed but still visibly scratched at the base of his palm, where he'd wrested his hands out of the shackles.

"Before I figured out how madly in love with you I was, yeah, the chip ran the show. It's why I was a bit of a jerk, always snarkin' and havin' a laugh at everyone, and nickin' stuff, trifles. Little things to make me feel like I was still bad, even though I couldn't kill. Then, the more an' more I thought about you, and what could make you... well, hate me _less_, the killer urge just... stopped altogether. Didn't even _want_ to bite people anymore. Just wanted you to not think so badly of me."

He gives a tiny, dry chuckle. "So, if you think about it, you had me under a _real_ thrall without even knownin' it. Slave to your bidding."

"You're not my _slave_, Spike. You keep saying stuff like that, but it isn't true."

"Is so. Love's bitch an' man enough to admit it. Remember, luv?"

"The only bitch around here lately is _me_. I've been über-selfish Buffy."

"Don't say that," he gently scowls, drawing back just enough to look into her eyes. "No one's allowed to make allegations against my girl. I'll knock the teeth out'a anyone who does." He pauses, contemplating. "Uh... so long as they're a demon. If they're human, I'll have to settle for my bone-chillin' glare."

He demonstrates, narrowing his eyes and frowning intensely.

"Oh, dear," Buffy gulps, masking a slight laugh. "If looks could stake."

He chuckles with her just as the microwave timer beeps, and she peels one arm away from Spike and jabs the machine to shut it up. She slips back into position against his side as though she hadn't moved at all, except perhaps that his arms are a little tighter, and the bridge of her nose rests against his throat.

"Seriously, though, luv," he murmurs, "if anythin' nasty ever hooks its barbs into my brain, you do what you have to do, protect Mum and lil' sis and the Scoobies. Revoke my invites to all your little safe havens and stay out of my reach."

"While I find a way to save you."

"I'm dead serious, Buffy. I'm not worth savin' should it come down to me or one of you lot."

"You _are_ one of 'my lot'."

"Buffy..."

"_Fine_," she huffs. "But I'm pretty there isn't anything that has that kind of power over you like _she_ did."

Her eyes fall on his bite again – hard to avoid it, really, when it glistens all over the left side of his neck, blotchy marks that so far refuse to heal.

"Does this still hurt?" she asks, hooking one finger into his t-shirt collar and inspecting the two fang punctures.

"Twinges, itches a bit," he shrugs. In all honesty the heavenly feeling of her breath over the bite is so soothing he's been ignoring any adverse sensation.

"You haven't tried the oft-misunderstood Dr. Bloody's Cure-all Vamp Saliva Formula?" she smirks. Spike snorts and rolls his eyes.

"Don't think my neck's quite that flexible, luv," he answers with a chuckle.

"We could experiment. Mouth to mouth to neck?"

She pecks his shoulder with her lips, smiling. He blinks as though her nonsensical phrase has made him dizzy, then determinedly shakes his head.

"I'd never ask you to do that."

"Do what?"

"For it to do any healin', I'd have to let the demon make an appearance. I wouldn't want you to kiss me when I'm... like that." _When I'm ugly and inhuman and the thing you're supposed to stake, sacred callin' an' all that rubbish_.

"With your bumpies?" she infers.

"_Bumpies_," he repeats, ribs vibrating with silent laughter. "Eloquence, thy name is _not_ Buffy."

He turns his head, testing her first suggestion, but as he suspected his chin and jaw prevent him from getting his mouth close enough to the bite. It _does_, however, put his lips within excellent range of Buffy's. His heavily lidded eyes rise from her pert mouth to meet her gaze, and he grins wolfishly, that tantalizing half smile that used to infuriate her... and now enflames her.

She launches herself at him, her lips pressing against his with a soft sigh that nearly makes his knees buckle. Her fingers wring a fistful of the fabric of his t-shirt, and her left palm cups the back of his head to keep him close.

_You love with all your soul..._

"Buuuffffy."

Returning her kiss, Spike stretches her name out in a long, ardent groan that, without any warning, floods her system with lust. Gasping, she forces his mouth open and explores it with her eager tongue, her pelvis arching amorously into him. He moans and slides his hands around her, one catching in her thick ringlets, the other fisting in the fabric of her shirt at her lower back.

"Want you, baby... Love you..."

His hands slink slowly down her body until they finds the backs of her thighs, and with the quietest assertive growl, he clenches, yanking her flat to his body. She nods against the side of his head and clenches his shirt collar in both hands, mewling as he grinds against her center with quick strained thrusts. He backs into the counter, and she climbs him, veins pumping with fire.

_Love is brighter than the fire... blinding..._

He draws her knees around his hips, spreading her legs, opening her up.

"Spike! Whoa. Oh God," Buffy pants. Her brain cries out _"Take me! Counter! Floor! Just now!"_ and _"Mom could walk downstairs any second!"_ with equal gusto.

"Yeah, baby?" he whimpers, biting his lip and shaking with the effort of restraining himself. Her neck arches against his mouth, and he kisses her pulse point, tongue teasing her skin.

"Spike! Oh, oh you're... ohhh!"

"Buffy," he grinds out, painfully aching for her. "Please..."

She moans loudly as his mouth crushes hers again. Their kiss deepens second by second, lips twisting, dancing.

It would be so easy... just to worm a hand between them, dispense with two buttons and two zippers, and guide him inside... so why does time seem to be frozen, her hands stuck in place gripping his shoulders? Like they deserve better for their first time than a quickie standing up in her kitchen, clenching their teeth for fear of being caught, her mother and sister within earshot? Like they've earned the right to make love for hours in a soft bed and solitude, with shouts of satisfaction and slick, naked limbs... _slick, naked Spike..._ Oh, nevermind the bed...

Then the coffeemaker and the stalled microwave let out nagging electronic chimes at the same moment.

"Shut up!" Spike gripes violently at the appliances. His face whips back to Buffy, and he opens his mouth – to beg, to kiss, to worship her – but she explodes with laughter, her entire petite frame vibrating with it.

"You – yelled at – the coffee," she coughs out between giggles, and he throws back his head and laughs as well, her elated expression contagious. The wooden cupboard behind his legs gives a sudden _creak_ of protest as their combined weight pushes harder against it.

"What the?!"

Shoving away, he spins 180-degrees, Buffy still latched onto his torso. Exactly where he'd been standing, the cabinet sports a concave indentation just underneath the countertop.

"Spike... your ass bent the cabinet," Buffy snickers, and they're instantly overcome with shared laughter, hugging tightly.

"Buffy?" Joyce's concerned voice heralds them from the upstairs balcony. "Are you alright?"

"Yes!" she calls up as Spike sets her on the floor again. "I'm fine! Spike's okay too. We made coffee."

The reminder sets them both into rib-clenching laughs again, the stress and pain of the previous two days and nights utterly wiped away.

"What _is_ it about your kitchen?" he mutters, stroking his hands through her hair. "Maybe you were onto somethin' earlier, pet. Somethin' in the air makin' me crave you. More like lust mosquitoes, though. Bite me every time."

Curbing his chuckles, he presses an exceedingly gentle, closed-lips kiss to her mouth and then moves toward the microwave for his blood as they hear Joyce's slipper-clad footsteps rush down the stairs and through the dining room.

"Oh, Buffy!" she says in relief. "Dawn and I had planned on staying up to wait for you, but it got so late and I didn't want her to be tired at school..."

"It's okay, Mom," Buffy reassures her, pouring a bit of creamer and one sugar packet into the bottom of Joyce's mug, then adding the fresh coffee. "Giles took extra good care of me, except for the whole no-food-or-water part."

Relieved, Mrs. Summers steps past her daughter and studies Spike's face kindly. "And you're really better, William?"

"Am now, Mum. So sorry I couldn't let on anythin' 'bout what had happened. Needed my Slayer to buck up the strength to find the words."

He slips one arm around Buffy – who's pulling Dawn's cereal box down from a shelf – and tenderly kisses her hair once before facing Mrs. Summers again. "I was a mess on account of... I staked Drusilla, my old flame."

Joyce gives a sigh of half-sympathy, half-horror as she accepts her mug from Buffy.

"That girl who dumped you two years ago? When did she come here?"

"Mom," Buffy chides, "Spike probably doesn't want to talk about..."

"No trouble, luv. Arrived night before Valentine's on the train from LA. Made a bit of a splash in the news. Long story short, she threatened harm to my family, and I stopped her."

Joyce pats Spike's shoulder soothingly, and as Buffy watches the two of them, her eyes suddenly narrow in suspicion.

"Mommy, why are you all dressed up?"

Joyce's cheeks flame pink, and she self-consciously smoothes the front of the attractive gown she's wearing. "I, well... I wanted you and Dawn to help me decide on a dress."

"Decide on what?" asks Buffy's younger sister, thumping down the stairs at the moment and joining them. "Hey, Spike. Oh! Spike, you're not comatose anymore! Yay!"

"Dawn!" Buffy admonishes, but Spike just rolls his eyes amiably at her sister.

"Hey, Platlet," he smiles, slowly sipping his lukewarm blood. "An' Mum looks lovely, doesn't she, pet?"

"Well, yeah, but that's not the point," Buffy mutters, but Spike sneakily winks at Dawn and gestures to the center of the room.

"Give us a spin, eh, Joyce?"

Beaming, Joyce sets her coffee mug down on the countertop and revolves on the spot, her dress flaring gracefully.

"Very nice, pet. It suits you. Could you spin 'round again?" he asks, winking pointedly at both Summers girls while their mother twirls.

"Ooh, I'm not sure. Once more," says Dawn conspiratorially. Her mom concedes, and Buffy finally catches on.

"Now could you go the other way?" she requests cheekily. Joyce starts to turn, but then pauses and stares around at all three of them.

"You're messing with me!"

Spike chuckles, polishing off the last of his blood. "Just wanted to see how many times we could get you to do it, luv."

"Was that four, or three and a half?" sniggers Dawn.

"So is _anyone_ going to talk about my dress?" Joyce asks for disparagingly, holding out her arms.

"It's lovely, Mum. Quite fetchin'."

"You sure? I mean, it's not too mom-ish?"

"Oh, that was why I liked it," says Dawn, earning a disappointed sigh from her mother.

"You're both crazy. It's not mom-ish at all," Buffy offers. "It's sexy. It screams, 'Randy sex kitten. Buy me one drink and I'll...' Oh, wait, that's not really good either."

One of Spike's dark brows rises, and when Buffy joins him at the sink to wash the coffeepot, he gives her a seductive little growl, too soft for her mom or Dawn to hear.

"Can I be your _randy sex kitten_?" he smirks, rinsing his blood mug. "Meeowww."

"Shh!" hisses Buffy, nearly overcome with giggles yet again. Maybe some small part of her brain is sharing in Spike's grief over killing the woman he used to love, but most of her is just overjoyed that he's here with her and on the fast-track to being the healthy, snarky vampire he usually is.

"What's with modeling the dress for us anyways?" asks Dawn suddenly, reigniting Buffy's curiosity as well. "Event at the gallery?"

"No..." Joyce blushes. "I have something tonight. At seven."

"Seven's a long ways away, pet. Twelve hours, nearly," says Spike, standing in his previous spot against the counter but without touching the indented cabinet. "Lots of time to tell the tale an' still get Niblet off to the hallowed halls of learnin'."

"Vast acres of time in which you could plant crops," Buffy chimes in. "So confess!"

"This evening I have a... a date," Joyce admits, with the air of one facing her accusers at a criminal hearing.

The kitchen instantly falls so silent that with Spike's enhanced vampire hearing he can detect the tiny air bubbles popping in Dawn's cheerios as they saturate with milk.

"Well... good on you, Joyce," he offers, quickly glancing at Buffy to see if this is the correct response. _How exactly 'm I s'posed to react to the love of my life's mum riskin' her chances of findin' love herself, on a Hellmouth, no less?_

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" exclaims Buffy, her fingers forming a T and her eyes seeming to bulge right out of her head. "A date? You're going on a date? With _who_? Is he a robot? Should Spike and I mash him up into component parts?"

"No!" Joyce blushes scarlet. "His name is Brian."

"Brian Who? Where'd you meet him? _Is_ he a robot? Spike, quick, check all the drawers for evil candy."

"Come again?" he asks in bewilderment.

"There's no candy!" Joyce protests before Buffy can explain. "And he's not a robot! He came to the gallery my first day back. He works for a publishing house. He's a nice, normal guy, okay?"

"I've heard nothing that rules out the possibility of robot, demon, zombie, witch doctor from Panama..."

"What's he got planned for tonight?" asks Spike over Buffy's fearful tirade. "Gotta know where the posse's s'posed to come ridin' in if things go south."

Joyce rolls her eyes over her mug of coffee. "Dinner and a movie. Or... maybe it was a movie and _then_ dinner. Because then we could talk about the movie..."

"But if it's tonight then the only cowboys who _could_ come riding in to save you are me and Giles," Dawn reminds them. " 'Cuz the rest of you have that spring-break themed party, though I really don't get why they don't have it at spring break."

"Probably because all the luau decorations are cheaper now than they will be in three weeks when _all_ the frats are having spring break parties," suggests Buffy.

"Some campus shindig?" Spike asks quietly, his thumb tracing the lip of his cleaned mug. _Wonder if Willy's needs to be cleaned out of deadbeats again... anythin's better than sittin' in my crypt alone... Oh, God... her dust is still there on the rugs..._

"Yeah, I must've thought it was _next_ Friday," says Buffy, not quite clued in to his tone. "Dawn, how did –?"

"Tara and Willow were talking about it yesterday. It's gonna be in their dorm. I think they brought up _everything_ they could think of to try to get our minds off of..."

She glances at Spike and guiltily jams a spoonful of soggy cereal in her mouth to shut herself up. Smiling tenderly, he leans over the island across from Dawn to look her closely in the face.

"Can you forgive me, Niblet, for lettin' you see me like that? I shouldn't've come back here and made you an' Mum an' the good witches share in my sufferin'."

"Course I forgive you, but _seeing it_ wasn't the problem," replies Dawn, brandishing her cereal spoon at him though her eyes are endearing. "I wanted to know whose evil butt I was supposed to kick for hurting you so much."

"Appreciate the thought, pet, but nothin' more to be done now, 'cept hope that Harm was scared enough to keep herself an' Darla from carryin' on with their wicked wiles."

"Hey, hang on," demands Buffy, halfway through slicing a banana into her own cereal bowl. "You didn't say 'Harm', did you? _Harmony_ was here too?"

"Oh, right. Funny how everyone's always so quick to try to forget her," he shrugs. "Yeah, the blonde bint was Dru's sidekick of sorts. They came here to lasso me into goin' back to LA and helping Darla put Angelus in the front seat again. Come to think of it, just as a precaution... maybe you should pull the plug on your ex's invite. You... wouldn't mind?"

"No, of course I wouldn't. That's smart," answers Buffy. "I'll get Willow to do it next time she's over."

Spike nods at her quick acceptance, but he still seems subtly downcast, toying with the empty mug as though it's a Rubik's Cube, so Buffy gives him a little jab with her elbow, trying to brighten his mood.

"Please, why would you even _think_ I minded? I am _so_ over Sir Frowns-A-Lot."

Dawn snorts into her cereal bowl, and the corner of Spike's mouth twitches up.

"Glad to hear it, an' I'm surprised the whelp didn't pick up on that moniker a while ago. Perfect label for Ol' Forehead."

"I try," smirks Buffy, "I'll tell him tonight at... the party..." The reason suddenly clicks in her head, the topic that brought on Spike's melancholia. "Hey... Spike?"

"Yeah, luv?"

"Do you want to go to the Spring Break Bash party with me?" she asks sweetly. "As a date?"

Spike's hands stop their twisting motions, and he sets the cup on the countertop as he looks up into her eyes, all sighs of self-doubt and confliction gone.

"Yeah... yes, pet, I'd love that." His brows suddenly narrow suspiciously. "So long as I don't have to wear that hideous Hawaiian shirt of Xander's. Come to think of it, I think I burned the soddin' thing. Didn't go with my stuff at all."

"Awww!" Dawn protests. "But you'd look so college-y!"

"Me? College-y?" he gapes at the teen. "I went to university before this ruddy town was _founded_. No way in hell am I gonna dress like the kind of bloke I wouldn't've reduced myself to _eat_ two years ago. Think I'll wear somethin' your big sis likes, seein' as how it's our date an' all. Want to stand out."

* * *

"They all look the same," Willow mutters to Tara as they accompany Buffy, Anya, and Xander through the crowd of Hawaiian-shirted fraternity boys. The common area of Stevenson Hall is jam-packed with decorations and heavily laden tables of snacks, punch, and diluted booze, around which the group of five maneuvers slowly until they reach the dance floor beside a large window.

"There must be _some_ sort of system," Buffy ponders, glancing around without really caring. "Maybe the blue shirts with orange flowers are the Beta Thetas, and the pinky ones are the Phi Sigmas... or maybe they want us to _think_ there's a system. Or maybe some of them missed the memo that there _was_ a system. Ugh. Too much thinking. Dancing is the only cure!"

"You can dance with Xander," Anya offers brightly. "That's very gracious of me, you know. I'm expecting a big karmic reward any second now."

"Nah, I'll wait."

Buffy glances through the crowd for her bleach-blond creature of the night, but the only person she recognizes aside from the Scooby gang is Ben from the hospital. She sighs, arms crossed, and Tara pats her shoulder soothingly.

"Sorry you have to be fifth-wheel-Buffy again," Xander shrugs, handing punch cups around to all the females.

"I'm not," she replies quickly. "Spike's coming."

"Oh... because tiki torches and grass skirts are really his thing?"

"No," Buffy frowns at her closest male friend. "Because I invited him, and he's my boyfriend, and he's by far the best one I've ever had, so you should be supportive."

Xander raises his right hand and nods soberly as though swearing to tell the whole truth and nothing but. "Hey, I'm support-o guy. If there was something more supportive and less inappropriate than a bra, that would be me."

"He's b-b-b-better now?" Tara whispers, brows raised in sympathy. "Sp-spike?"

"Yes, very better," answers Buffy. "Maybe not _all_ better, but... better."

"Did... d-d-did he tell you...?"

Tara doesn't need her to complete her stuttered half-question for Buffy to comprehend immediately.

"Spike staked Drusilla, yesterday, while I was out on my quest. You got to his crypt not five minutes after it happened. He was in shock."

Willow and Tara cover their mouths in horror, while Xander gapes at Buffy, and Anya just squints, sipping her punch.

"Gosh," mumbles Xander. "That's... wow. I mean... the guy was with her for like, a century. She _turned_ him for Pete's sake."

"Who's Pete? We don't know any Pete," asks Anya, now doubly-confused.

"It's an expression, honey."

"Then who's Drusilla?"

Signing, Buffy turns and heads toward a snack bowl at another table, leaving Xander and the others to fill Anya in on Spike's late ex. Ladling some mixed nuts into her cupped hand, she glances up to see Ben approach her, smiling in a slightly-uncomfortable way.

"Buffy."

"Ben, hey, I didn't know you were going to be here," she replies, polite but indifferent. "And again with the non-medical clothing."

"Well, actually these are orthopedic pants." Off her skeptical look he mumbles, "Man, that sounded so funny in my head."

Buffy smiles kindly. _Yep, definitely _only_ funny in your head, or maybe my standard for jokes and puns is higher after spending five years around Xander_.

"So... you having a good time?"

Ben's words pass through her ears without making any impact on her preoccupied brain as another presence touches her Slayer senses. She stares around wildly until her green eyes link with vibrant blues. He stands against a column at the far end of the common area, wearing that eye-catching royal-blue shirt under his duster, watching her with a nervous half-smile on his full lips.

"William!" Buffy says loudly. As she starts walking toward him, she half-turns her head back toward Ben to give a courtesy, "Gotta go, bye." Her volume rises again the closer she gets to Spike. "You made it! Hey, handsome."

Knowing that her loudness has drawn many stares in her direction, Buffy rises on tiptoe and gives Spike a hungry kiss, arms around his neck.

"Why so blue?" she smirks once she detangles her lips from his, her fingers gently rubbing the curve of his bicep. "You're totally hot in blue, but I mean the _other_ kind of blue that is less okay."

"Overkill, luv. Don't have to coddle me," he informs her with the same half-grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze flickers back over to Ben, wishing he could be as strong willed as the narrator of that poem he'd read aloud. _"Nor dare I question with my jealous thought / Where you may be, or your affairs suppose... think of naught / Save where you are..."_

"Spike, you know there's absolutely no reason to be jealous," she says earnestly, fingertips still lightly flowing up and down his sleeve.

"What? Me, jealous? Of the scrubs-wearin' ninny? Pff, course I'm n..."

He hangs his head and rolls his shoulders uncomfortably. _Of course I'm bloody jealous. 'Cause with a real boy like that, my girl could meet for breakfast in little street-side coffee shops in the mornings, watch sunsets, have children..._

Glancing up at the Slayer again, Spike manages a mildly snarky grin.

"They've got this bed of hot coals dare set up aside. Thought 'bout walkin' barefoot across it, showin' up all the little schoolboys. Bet I could do better than Orthopedic Pants over there."

"I'm sure you would scream in a very manly fashion as your toes turned black and fell off," Buffy chuckles. "Why'd it take you so long to get here? Sunset getting later?"

His smile fades a moment before he manages to draw it back. "Had to tiny the place. My unwelcome guests really ballsed things up, though the free cattle-prod is a nice bonus. And... had to sweep the dust away. Didn't want any trace left if we... if we went back there tonight."

"We could go to my place instead," suggests Buffy. "No one's there right now. I have to pick Dawn up from Giles's, since we're all here and Mom's on her date... oh my gosh, Spike, my _mother_ is on a _date_ with a man I haven't investigated for demonic potential yet. We should go check on her, probably now-ish. What if she's being eaten or probed with tentacles or –?"

"Mum will be _fine_, pet. She's a big girl and doesn't need babysitin'. 'Sides, I just got here! Only way I'm leavin' now is if you put your hands on my hot, tight little body and _make_ me," he smirks with a haughty, challenging tilt of one eyebrow.

"Maybe I will," she retorts, mock-threatening and leaning a little closer into him.

"Oh, I hope so, Slayer."

The tips of their noses brush as Spike bends to kiss her, a single gentle press of his lips, as though she's a crystal chalice. Nearby, the band transitions to a soothing guitar riff, and the rowdier partiers clear the dance floor, disinterested in the calm music.

/ _There's always something in the way  
There's always something getting through  
But it's not me, it's you... it's you... /_

"I ever mention that you look like a fairy princess in gold, pet?" he murmurs, a hand slipping up the side of her metallic-colored sweater, brushing briefly over her neck, and toying lightly with her earring. "My golden ray of sunshine."

She strokes his cheek, adoring the smoothness of his cool skin, satin over the steel planes of his face. His eyes drift closed at her touch.

"Mmmm... dance with me, baby."

"Thought you'd never ask."

_/ Sometimes ignorance rings true  
But hope is not in what I know  
It's not in me, it's in you... it's in you... /_

They move to the center of the floor, and Buffy leans against Spike's chest, sweetly slow-dancing with her right hand entwined in his left, their other pair of hands between their hearts. Her forehead rests on his cheek, vibrating slightly as he hums along with the lead singer.

_/ It's all I know  
It's all I know  
I find peace when I'm confused  
I find hope when I'm let down  
Not in me... in you, it's in you... /_

Spike draws their joined hands to his lips and cups Buffy's palm around his mouth and chin, kissing the heel of her hand.

"Let's not stay here awhile, a'right, my treasure?" he breathes, cool voice caressing her skin. "Been waiting all day to get you alone."

His whispers kindle a heat low in her stomach, and she bows slightly into him, lips at his ear.

"How many hours you think we'll have before we should go pick up Dawn? I want a _loooong_ time with you, you _randy sex kitten_."

He purrs into her hand, eyes alight and glinting like sapphires. "As long as you want, Buffy. As long as you want."

"Mmm. Even _you_ don't have that kind of stamina."

His light laugh caresses her ear, and Spike flicks his tongue against the bit of skin where her lobe meets her neck. She gasps into him, hands scraping gently against his chest, and he trails his fingertips across her lower back.

"Guess you'll find out later, luv."

_/ I hope to lose myself for good  
I hope to find it in the end  
Not in me... in you, in you  
It's all I know  
It's all I know  
It's you  
It's you... /_

"Song's nearly over, I reckon," he says softly, velvet lips kneading her jaw. "Say a farewell to the Scoobies and slip away, eh?"

"Uh-huh, uh-huh," she nods urgently, already melting in his arms. "Spike..."

"Hello!"

An unfamiliar girl stands directly beside them, her smile glaringly enthusiastic.

"Uh, hi," replies Buffy. The tiny part of her brain that isn't lusting after Spike wonders if she's met this girl in one of her classes, but she can't recall.

"I'm looking for my fella," says the girl without any preamble.

"Uh... sorry, but... who are you?" Buffy asks apologetically.

"I'm April. Have you seen Warren? Warren is my boyfriend."

"Nope. Don't know a Warren," shrugs Buffy, still swaying slightly against Spike's body, his lips nuzzling her throat where the perky girl can't see. "Um... we, um, we're gonna be going soon, so..."

"Are you sure you don't know Warren?" April insists, stepping into their path as Spike starts to draw Buffy away from the silent dance floor. "I'm looking for Warren. It's very important that I find him as soon as I can."

"We don't know any Warren!" Spike grumbles impatiently. "Would you just sod off?"

He lightly shoves the strange girl's shoulder and instinctively mutters a soft "ow!" under his breath, anticipating the chip to fire. Then his eyes widen, and he squints at April.

"Hey..."

April looks from her own arm to Spike, and an expression of disgusted anger appears on her face. Before he or Buffy can react, she grabs Spike by the front of his blue shirt and lifts him off his feet, suspending him above her head. He struggles and yells, completely startled.

"Hey! Hey! _HEY!_"

"You cannot touch me. You are not my boyfriend!" April announces, loud enough to draw all eyes towards them.

Then she hefts him even higher in her arms... and throws him through the window.

* * *

_To be continued..._

_A/N: Sorry for being such a tease with all the near-smut scenes. The 'big moment' is coming up in a few chapters. Also, nominations for round 29 of the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfiction Awards have begun, so PM me if you think this story should be recognized and you have interest in nominating it. I've been so blessed by all your complements! I love writing, so I'm very happy my scribbles are well-received. If you would, log in for reviews so I can give you a personal thank you! :)_


	25. Chapter 25: Accepted

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thank you _Fallen Priestess, randyzoopurple, CailinRua, Bree, Forever-Furuba, xoxArtemisSalvatoreBennettxox, Da0122, Vivi H88, reggie81, TieDyeJackson, daria fire demon, Secret Slayer, zozoer123, Starscape91_, _bowlingforvampires_, and _Jedi SteelWolf_ for your reviews! And a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has followed or favorited!

Quadruple thank-you to _Forever-Furuba_ for noting that Spike's chip should NOT have actually gone off from shoving April. Oops. I've now fixed that (last few paragraphs of the last chapter if you read it the first night I updated it). Serves me right for posting in the wee hours of the morning after long days of engineering classes.

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "I Was Made To Love You", both script and transcript quotes.

Some more near-smut. Yes, yes, I'm mean and cruel. Only a few more chapters until the moment we've all been waiting for.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Spike comes to terms with staking Drusilla, and Buffy finally realizes she does have some kind of love for Spike, even if she hasn't been able to say it yet. He and Buffy nearly get it on in her kitchen, _again_. Buffy invites him to the Spring Break bash in Stevenson Hall, but something seems a little odd about this girl who intrudes on their dance, because when Spike shoves her away, she picks him up and throws him through the common area window._

* * *

Chapter 25: Accepted

Sporting numerous small cuts all over his face, Spike picks himself up from the broken glass in the lawn just outside Stevenson Hall and stares back through the window frame at the abnormally strong girl.

"Bloody hell!" he gapes. "You threw me through a window!"

April stares aloofly back at him as Xander, Anya, Tara, and Willow shove their way through the astonished party attendees and join Buffy in the center of the room.

"What was that about?" demands Spike, still brushing glass fragments from his duster.

"You cannot touch me. I have a boyfriend," replies April matter-of-factly. "Warren is my boyfriend."

"You know what? My bleedin' sympathies to Warren," Spike retorts. He shakes a few more bit of glass out of his hair, rubs blood off his chin, and shuffles around toward the back door of Stevenson Hall, limping slightly. April glances at the crowd of onlookers, most of whom back away slightly, muttering to themselves.

"No one but Warren can touch me," she announces to the partygoers in a no-nonsense tone. She steps toward the door, but Buffy cuts her off, ignoring the head-shaking from the Scoobies.

"Excuse me," she cautiously smiles at April. "Hi, um, maybe you and I could... talk. You know, 'cause throwing Spike through a window..." She grins a tiny bit, remembering many-a-time when she would have liked to do the same, back when he was a peroxide pest instead of her partner and confidante. "That was funny, but generally speaking, it's not okay to –"

"Do you know my boyfriend?" April demands.

"Okay," Buffy grumbles, really getting tired of April's one-track-mind, "I think you need to take a second and stop looking for your boyfriend."

Mildly outraged, April seizes Buffy by her upper arms and flings her halfway across the lounge of Stevenson Hall. Buffy skids to a halt on the floor while Ben and other partygoers flee left and right, clearly scared of the bizarre people-throwing girl.

"I _have_ to find him," April insists, approaching Buffy as she sits up, rubbing her pinched arm. She leans over the Slayer and adopts a voice of condescending sympathy. "If I hurt you just now, I'm sorry. And I hope that _your_ boyfriend will take good care of you."

"_My_ boyfriend is the guy you chucked out the window!" Buffy hollers, but April's already gone, climbing through the frame of the shattered window and heading down the street at a steady pace.

"Ow! Watch it! Clumsy little snots."

Spike races back in, wincing as a few of the retreating partiers collide with him and set off his chip with mild shots of electricity.

"Buffy!"

"I'm okay," she mutters, scrambling to her feet and checking the bruise on her arm. "Are you? You're limping!"

"Yeah, 'm alright, just landed funny on my ankle. Shirt got scratched up a bit. Sorry. Know you like it."

Pouting, she reflexively jabs him in the ribs before holding her hurt arm again. "You silly goose! I don't care about the shirt! I care about _you!_ Your face is all cut up!"

He grins at her outburst.

"Nicks and grazes, luv. Be cleared up in a... a day or two."

His voice drops away as the rest of the Scoobies join them, and his eyes land on Tara. She glances quickly at the floor, as though meeting his gaze will recall to her memory all the horrible emotions of the previous night.

"Tara."

Her head remains down despite his gentle tone, and Willow steps between the two of them, her most intimidating facial expression on full-blast.

"Oh, hey, Spike, how are you?" she asks loudly, as though she hasn't seen him in months instead of a mere twenty-four hours. "Nice to see you don't have that oozy mark on your, um, neck anymore. Honestly, that was big with the gross."

"Step aside, Red," Spike whispers, his eyes never leaving Tara's bowed head behind Willow's shoulder.

"Does he not know about the 'resolve face'? Does it not work on vampires?" Xander mutters to Buffy, who just shrugs, as perplexed about Spike's behavior as she is about this weird April girl.

"Spike," Willow tries another tactic, "Buffy already told us what happened, so there's no need to try to explain – "

"Red..." he murmurs, his voice incredibly soft but laced with intensity. "No matter what's been explained, there're only two other people in this room who have the faintest idea what I've really been through, an' you're not one of 'em, so step aside."

"But," Willow begins again, until the faintest of voices makes her turn around sharply.

"W-w-w-Will, it's okay," stutters Tara, her eyes finally rising again. "It's r-r-really okay."

Hesitantly, the redheaded witch takes a few tiny steps toward Xander and Anya, leaving the path between Spike and Tara open. For a moment, no one in their group moves a muscle except for Tara's blinking as moisture creeps over her eyes. Never breaking eye-contact, Spike slowly walks up to her.

"Did you suss it out? Before whatever Buffy told you?" he asks, voice hitching slightly in his throat. "Did you know it was Dru?"

"N-n-n-no." Tears slip down Tara's cheeks as she shakes her head. "C-c-couldn't... couldn't even imagine w-w-w-what it w-was. Didn't know th-th-that kind of p-p-pain was even... p-p-p-possible."

"Dear god... Tara, I'm... I'm so utterly sorry."

The rest of the Scoobies watch in transfixed silence as Spike embraces the shaking, nearly-weeping empath and brushes a quick kiss on her hair.

"Forgive me, pet. Please, please forgive me. Never meant to put you through hell with me."

"It... it was n-n-nothing..." Tara mumbles, wiping her eyes with her sleeves.

"It _wasn't_ nothin' an' you know that," insists Spike. "Not sure what you did, but it helped, truly. You're a heaven-sent, little Glinda, and if you ever suss out a way I can repay you, you tell me sharpish. I'd take a bullet for you, pet."

Tara pales, and Willow instantly stomps over and shoves Spike away from her girlfriend, her own eyes damp but her face stormy.

"There will be no bullets and no taking of any kind!"

"Ease up, Firebird," Spike replies, holding up his hands in surrender, a grin working its way back onto his face. He returns to Buffy's side, and she threads her arms tight around him, pouting at the twinge of pain in her bruised bicep.

"Ow," she mumbles sulkily, eyeing her arm. "I don't know about you guys, but I've had it with super-strong little women who aren't me."

"Somethin' definitely off about that girl," nods Spike in a slightly irritable tone. He rubs his chin, where the deepest of his fresh cuts itches as it starts to scab. "Firstly, chip didn't fire when I pushed her, an' it's definitely still workin', what with the crowd of undergrads knockin' into me on their way out. Secondly, I shoved her hard enough, but the bird didn't move a muscle."

"And she picked you up like you were a very _little_ vampire and threw you through a sheet of glass," adds Willow. "Presto, ouchies."

"Well, yeah. Didn't smell any demon on her, though."

"At l-least she didn't d-do too much damage," Tara offers.

"Are you kidding?" says Xander, pointing at the Spike-shaped hole in the window. "Double-glazed windows ain't cheap. And the jam needs to be completely repaired... Oh dear god, I'm the grown-up who sees the world through my job. I'm like my uncle Dave the plumber. I must be shunned."

"Okay," Willow giggles.

"So," Buffy tries to draw their focus back to the April anomaly, "what do you guys think she is? I mean, this may sound nuts, but I kinda got the impression that she was a –"

"Robot," say Anya, Willow, and Spike simultaneously.

"Oh, yeah, robot," Xander nods.

"Yeah, I was gonna say robot," shrugs Buffy, wishing all their mysterious baddies were this easy to identify. "What do you think she wants?"

"Warren, whoever that is," Tara suggests, and Xander backs her up.

"He's gotta be the guy that built her."

"It's an unusual name," says Willow. "There's hardly any except Warren Beatty and, you know, President Harding. It's, uh, probably not either of them."

"Will, can you track down this guy with only a first name?"

Willow nods at Buffy. "Given enough time. I can get a list of the Sunnydale students named Warren tonight, but... then we'll have to call them or go to their dorms, so we probably can't start narrowing it down until tomorrow."

Buffy frowns, worried by the thought of the Warren-fixated, crazy robot-girl wandering around town.

"She could do a lot of damage by then," Anya voices Buffy's fears aloud.

"To who, Spike?" sniggers Xander, earning a glower from the vampire.

"Oi, next time she fancies defenestratin' someone, more than likely than not it'll be a _human_, who'd be a lot more hurt, like maybe this Warren fellow."

"Well, it didn't s-sound like she wanted to h-hurt him," Tara reminds them. "She said he's her boyfriend."

"I agree." Willow squeezes her girlfriend's hand. "I'm not sure this is a code red. Hey! Is there a code pink? We need more codes."

The witches grin affectionately, and the potent tension from a few minutes earlier seems to have been shoved out through the gaping hole in the back window, leaving only camaraderie between the Slayer's closest friends.

"Okay," Buffy concedes, resting her head against the smooth leather on Spike's shoulder. "We'll track down this Warren tomorrow. Tonight I better... uh, go rescue Giles. I have a feeling there's only so much Dawn-watching that one Watcher can take."

"Oh, Giles and Dawnie? I bet they ended up having a blast," smiles Tara.

"Still, um, I probably should go check on her anyway. Just because Glory hasn't made a big move since my birthday doesn't mean she won't come blazing in, ready for more sister-endangering mayhem. Hence the Dawn-watching. Coming, Spike?"

"Uh, right you are, luv. Bring a coat?"

"In the foyer. Bye guys!"

Amid cheerful farewells and "See ya!"s, Buffy and Spike leave the lounge area, grab her outerwear and purse from the rack by the front door of Stevenson Hall, and step out into the night.

"Did you drive here?" she whispers conspiratorially once they're alone save for some straggling partygoers continuing to entertain themselves with horseshoes and other lawn games.

"No, walked over from Restfield," replies Spike.

"Good. It'll look less suspicious without your car in the driveway."

His steps miss a beat, and he curiously tilts his head at Buffy before a sly smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

"Not goin' to Rupert's flat right away, are we, pet?"

"Well... we could always patrol first," she shrugs, feigning innocence. "Or, you know, maybe go straight back to my house..."

"An' what're we gonna do when we get there, sneaky little Slayer?" grins Spike, slipping his hand down her uninjured arm and interlocking his fingers with hers. His ankle already whole again, they walk briskly enough to cause suspicion if some passerby really looks closely at the couple, but they don't care, the distance between them and Revello Drive decreasing at an ever quickening pace.

"Oh, I don't know... maybe... have some very loud alone-time..."

A low growl of yearning and consent escapes his throat, and his steps accelerate even more, pulling her along with him down the familiar residential streets.

"Yeah. Yeah, Buffy. That sounds... Cor, that sounds perfect, luv."

"Slow down! Even Slayers get stitches in their sides."

He grins, relaxing his pace only slightly as the Summers' home appears within sight.

"Sorry, pet," he murmurs huskily. "Just got me eager for you, is all."

They reach the front porch, practically tumbling over each other's feet in their haste, and Buffy digs through her purse for her keys.

"Stupid little shiny things!" she huffs when fifteen seconds of searching yield no results.

"Need me to pick the lock?" Spike grins, eyeing the doorknob. "Or, if you fancy, I could just sweep my lover off her feet and carry her up to her bedchamber through the window..."

Buffy isn't quite sure whether '_lover'_ or '_bedchamber'_ set her off, but her frustrating purse clunks down onto the porch floorboards as she snakes her arms around Spike's neck. Giggling and still slightly breathless from their dash, she gropes his lips with her mouth and backs him into the porch railing.

"Mmm, I'm not the only eager one, eh, luv?" he smirks against her craving mouth. "Careful now, wouldn't want me to leave more cheek marks on the wood, would we?"

The porch light flicks on with a sudden blaze of light, and then the front door unlocks and opens, revealing a harried-looking Giles within.

"Giles!" Buffy gasps, withdrawing her hands from their route underneath Spike's duster towards his ass. "I... we, um, thought you were at your apartment."

The Watcher stares at them in mild irritation, and Spike subtly steps behind Buffy, his posture defensive, eyeing Giles for throwable wooden weapons.

"Yes, well, my record player is incapable of playing audio cassettes, so Dawn insisted we come back here."

On the stairs behind him, Dawn mouths "_Sorry!_" and then pantomimes smooching as she flees up to her room. As soon as her bedroom door closes, Giles's shoulders slump with an exhausted sigh.

"Dear god, Buffy, there's only so much I can take," he pleads. "We're going to have to change the system. A fourteen-year-old's too old to be babysat, and it's not fair on her."

"At last, a sympathizer," Spike snickers, flexing and rotating his ankle to ensure its complete repair. "A'least she didn't pop in on you unexpected and disrupt your rare forty winks."

"Okay, what did she make you do?" asks Buffy, smirking.

Giles shudders. "Um, well, we listened to aggressively cheerful music sung by people chosen for their ability to dance... then we ate cookie dough, and talked about boys."

Buffy giggles openly and then covers her mouth. "I'm sorry. I'm very, _very_ sorry... but if it makes you feel any better, my fun-time-Buffy-party involved watching a robot throw Spike out a window, so if you want to trade..."

She glances at Spike and recalls his wide-eyed and utterly astonished look as he'd clambered back up to his feet. Though the cuts to his face and shirt are certainly a downer, his hilariously surprised expression... priceless.

"No, I wouldn't trade that memory for anything," she smirks at Giles.

"Hey!" Spike frowns, but the Watcher pays him no attention, more focused on Buffy's previous words and on the vehicle stopping at the end of the driveway.

"A robot? Certainly sounds interesting."

"We're going to work on it _in the morning_," she says pointedly, joining her fingers with Spike's again – though behind her back, concealed from Giles. "I mean," she adds in an attempt to be polite, "unless you want to stay, and uh, we could..."

"Who wants to hear everything?" Joyce giggles excitedly, patting Spike on the back as she crosses between him and Giles and rushes into the kitchen to set her purse on the island.

"... listen to my _mom_ talk about boys," concludes Buffy, biting her lip. Though she couldn't be happier to see her mother home without loss of life or limb, it does effectively terminate any remaining chance of 'loud alone-time'.

"Mom's back?" Dawn hollers, scurrying out of her room and halfway back down the stairs. "Spill! Spill! Spill!"

"Right, must go," Giles says in a rush, donning his coat. "See you tomorrow. Bye Joyce!"

"Bye Rupert," Buffy's mother calls after him. As Spike and Buffy enter the foyer and close the door, she beams at them, hugging Dawn when she rockets down the rest of the stairs.

"So how was your night, Niblet?" asks Spike, encircling his arms around Buffy, hands clasping harmlessly over her stomach.

"Irritating Giles? Super awesome! I totally get why Buffy likes it so much."

"I do _not!"_ retorts Buffy indignantly, while Spike and Joyce chuckle.

"Gosh, I'd forgotten how much fun dating can be!" says Mrs. Summers, squeezing Dawn's shoulders until the teenager squirms.

"I dunno," her older daughter counters, crossing her arms and leaning back against Spike. "I was standing right here. I didn't see your Prince Charming. I didn't even see a goodnight kiss. It all looked pretty tame to me."

Releasing Dawn, Joyce removes her coat and hangs it on the rack beside the front door.

"Well, I suppose by your standards it could seem pretty..." Her eyes suddenly widen. "Oh dear."

"What?" Buffy demands fearfully.

"I left my bra in his car."

"Mother!"

Spike and Dawn burst into laughter, and Buffy turns on them, red in the face. "You, bed!" she orders Dawn, then rounds on Spike. "You, patrol!"

Still chortling, he nuzzles his face into her hair for a moment and then struts away through the kitchen to the backyard, while Dawn scurries upstairs in a fit of giggles.

"I'm joking!" Joyce confesses as the back door clinks shut behind the blond vampire.

"Good god, that's horrible. Don't do that," sighs Buffy, holding a hand over her heart in exaggerated relief. Joyce suddenly leans toward her, eyes alight with mischief.

"I left it in the restaurant."

"Ahh!" screeches Buffy. "No more! No more! No more!"

"On the desert cart!" Joyce yells after Buffy as she flees up the stairs, hands over her ears. She rushes into her bedroom, slams the door shut, and glares at it as though the harmless slab of wood is responsible for goading her mother into such terrible teasing.

"Somethin' the matter, pet?"

"Spike!" Buffy hisses, caught off guard in the dark. After a second of focusing, she spots him lounging on her bed, fully dressed except for his duster draped over the railing at the foot of her bed. "Wha... how did you get up here?"

"I came down the bloody chimney," he snickers with a roll of his luminescent eyes. "The _window_, silly girl. Picked the lock quick as I pleased. Really, luv, anythin' that doesn't need an invite could waltz right in here and have itself quite a treat."

She pouts, crosses the room to inspect her window, sighs, and then slides it back down into place and re-locks it.

"Well I _was_ going to sneak out and meet up with _you_. We haven't patrolled, a-and we _should_, especially with Girlfriend-ator on the loose. I take it nobody patrolled last night. The demons in this town are going to start thinking I'm slacking!"

"I _am_ on patrol," Spike grins, swinging his long legs around to the side of her bed. "I'm patrolin' for my Slayer."

"That isn't what I mean by 'patrol', Spike. Besides, don't you have a reputation as 'Big Bad' to uphold?"

His lips forming an enticing pucker, he stands and saunters toward her until he's close enough to thread his hand into her hair. His many cuts are already well on their way to vanishing in the usual smooth alabaster of his face.

"Ah, but you forgot, sweetness. I'm a mighty stubborn bloke. Gotta do a certain somethin' to _make_ me leave, remember? Somethin' with your hands..."

"But... duty..." she mumbles, unable to muster much conviction in her words or resist his fingers drawing her palms up to his chest. "And don't give me that sappy look."

"Wipe my smirk off, then, Slayer," he challenges, licking his lower lip, his tongue just barely shy of her mouth.

Gently pressing her fingers against his taut chest, she arches up to meet his lips with hers. His arms coil around her slender waist, and Buffy's hands clench, kneading and massaging the firm muscles under her palms.

"We... mmmm, we c-can't make a sound. Dawn and Mom..."

"I know, pet. Just kissin'. 'Nless you fancy some of that 'alone-time' you were whisperin' about."

"Mmmm... It _is_ too bad about your shirt," she sighs against his mouth, her fingers probing his cool skin through the many small slits the glass had cut through the blue stretchy material.

"P'haps Red can fix it, later... Here, luv..."

He lets her tug the torn material over his head, presses his hands to her lower back, and pulls her close, gliding his lips across her cheekbone to her temple.

"So," he grins into her ear, "when're you plannin' on tellin' me what _dream-Spike_ does that you fancy so much? I'm a mite jealous."

Her cheeks redden, and she knows he can feel the heat rapidly collecting in her face.

"I don't have those kinds of dreams anymore."

"Mmhmm."

His cool lips travel down into the hollow of her throat, and when she tips her head back, he sucks gently at her pulse-point.

"I d-d-don't, really," she moans helplessly.

"No cause for shame, luv. God knows I dream of you whenever I manage a moment of sleep."

"Like... sexy dreams?"

"Gotta answer my question first, pet." he replies, his lips and tongue still working their wickedly wonderful magic along her neck.

"Which question?" she mumbles, earning another whispered laugh from Spike. His talented mouth caresses and teases, sending shivers of pleasure down her back and pooling heat between her legs.

"When you dream of me..." he repeats, slower this time, interspersing each word or two with a press of his lips to her collarbone just peeking out from the upper edge of her sweater, "do you wake up sweatin' and gaspin', your heart all flutterin', cravin' me? Do you touch yourself?"

"Spike!"

"Shh, shh. Can't wake the Niblet, or your lovely but remarkably good at axe-wieldin' Mum might come chargin' in."

His long fingers skim up the front of her sweater, thumbs drawing tiny circles around the hardening peaks of her breasts, and she bites her lip to hold back a sharp whimper of desire.

"W-what do _you_ do in _your_ dreams?" she turns the question back on him, quivering and griping his forearms as he fondles her, and he smiles eagerly.

"Depends. Varies. Always snoggin'. Always caressin' you, like this..."

She moans faintly as he works one hand underneath her sweater, chilled fingers gliding up her stomach and ribs. Her hands find their way into the soft curls at the nape of his neck and grip hard.

"Buffy... tell me... what to do... to give my darling girl... pleasure..."

"Spike, we... we've got to b-be quiet," she pants into his neck, tipping him backwards onto the bed as his fingers entangle themselves in the hem of her sweater and begin slowly teasing it up her lower back. "Spike..."

"I can be quiet," he promises, breath racing. "Be so quiet you'll likely forget I'm even here."

"Spi–"

"Buffy," says Joyce's voice right outside the room as the knob suddenly clicks, "you know I was just kidding about the bra, right?"

Gasping against Spike, Buffy barely has time to disentangle his hands from her half-raised sweater and yank it down as her bedroom door opens. She sits up, whips around, and faces her mom in the doorway, Spike's bare arms still circling her waist. Joyce observes the couple, her face unreadable.

"Mom, I –"

Buffy flounders – doubting that her mom's seeming approval of her relationship with Spike extended to them having sex down the hall from Dawn – and as she falls silent, Spike tries to intervene.

"Joyce... I mean, Mrs. Summers, we –" but he can't do any better than Buffy.

"Uh... his, uh, his shirt tore and... uh..." She snatches the somewhat shredded blue fabric up from the floor and waves the evidence at Joyce.

"Right," Spike backs her up, "uh, lookin' for, uh, a fresh one I might've left here..."

"You don't need to tell me what's going on," says Buffy's mom before either of them can muster up a full coherent sentence. Beginning to close the door, she whispers conspiratorially, "Just don't wake up Dawn. Keep in mind the bed creaks, so you might want to consider using the rug."

"Mother!" Buffy gasps, and Spike chuckles, leaning his head against her shoulder-blade and sighing with relief.

"Always interrupted," he laughs once the bedroom door shuts again and Joyce's footsteps move away down the hall. "Thought she might do me in."

"She wouldn't. She likes you. _I'd_ be the one in trouble, not you."

"Your mum really likes me?" asks Spike, gently hugging Buffy as she sits in his lap and rests against his torso.

"Of course she does. She'd already figured out ages ago that you loved me."

"What's that mean, then? She _approves_? Of... of us? Or just tolerates me backin' you up on the demon-fightin' front, throwin' myself on the proverbial sword if need be?"

"I'm pretty sure she _does_ approve. We, um, Mom and I had a talk," explains Buffy, pulling her hair around to one side of her neck so the other half is exposed to Spike's cool, caressing lips. "I... I felt so awful about what I said on Valentine's and I didn't really know what to do, so I told her about it, about everything... well, nearly everything."

"I should say not. Mum's got no business knowin' all the bits you know 'bout my anatomy."

"Spike!" she hisses softly, digging her elbow just slightly into his ribs.

"Kiddin', luv," he murmurs against the skin of her throat. "But... you really think she's alright with... someone like _me_ fancyin' her daughter?"

"Hey..." She spins on his lap and reaches for his face, gently turning his chin up toward her. "You're not just any _someone_. You're _my_ someone, Spike. My choice, even if you are a bleachy pain-in-the-butt sometimes."

He grins and leans forward to kiss her, but before their lips brush, she suddenly yawns, her head drooping onto his shoulder.

"Sleeeeepy. Guess all the vamps are gonna roam free tonight after all."

"Got a little idea in regards to that, luv," he whispers, gently sliding her off his legs and gesturing his thumb toward the window. "How 'bout this. You doze off, I'll go make sure the non-human nightlife still quakes at the mention of our names, uphold our slayin' rep, and... and then..."

_Then I'll have to go back to my crypt and sleep among the ashes... Not even the real ones, 'cuz those I swept away. Just the ghost of her ashes now, ghost of _her_..._

"Buffy, luv?"

"Mmhmm?" Her lids open drowsily.

"Can... can I come back here after my bit of maintainin' the peace? Won't try anythin', I swear. I'll even sleep on the soddin' rug if you want. Just want to stay close to you. 'Til last night, I hadn't slept a full hour straight-through in..." He shrugs, not sure what number to even estimate. "Three weeks, rough guess, pro'ly more."

"Spike," she whispers sadly, drawing the pad of her thumb over the small purple-tinged shadow underneath his eyes, more noticable as the cuts continue healing. "Of course you can come baaaack."

Her final word is stretched in another quiet yawn, and Spike gently lays her all the way down to her pillow, a smile spreading across his face before he tugs his torn shirt back on.

"Sleep, luv. I'll come back, slip up here, and crash on your rug. Won't even know I'm here."

He can hear her heartbeat already steadying, drifting off almost instantly due to her sleep deprivation over the past two nights. Pulling his duster back on, Spike crosses to the window, slides it up as quietly as he can, and steps out onto the roof. He eases the pane back to just let a little cool air into Buffy's room, then climbs down the oak into the yard and takes off for the nearest cemetery.

For the first night full of brawling in months, Spike doesn't seek out the martyr fights, the ones from which he'll only emerge bleeding, bruised, and numb to his own inner pain. Tonight, he hunts the easy kills – sole vampires rising from their fresh earthen beds, stray demons who've had too much of Willy's booze – until he's yawning and blinking constantly to keep his eyes open, so he follows the moonlight back to Revello Drive. He manages to ascend the tree, guide the window up enough for his lean body to climb through, toe off his boots, and doff his duster without making any noise at all. Mussing his hair with a hand, he eyes the rug for a moment before glancing at Buffy's bed and smiling tiredly.

"Aw, pet..."

She hasn't moved at all, still stretched on top of all her covers, still wearing her shoes, too deep in the throws of sleep to care. Moving with slow precision, Spike unzips her mid-calf-length boots, slips them and her socks off her feet, and then lifts under her knees to ease her legs underneath the top layer of her sheets. As he pulls the covers up to her torso, her hand barely snags his arm, and a low hum of disturbed sleep escapes her throat.

"Spike...?"

"Shh... it's alright, my love. All's well in Sunny-D. Just go back to sleep, sweetheart."

Her arm gives the lightest tug, and her head lolls to the side, pressing her other cheek into her hair and pillow.

"Mmm... sleep with me."

A simple whisper through barely open lips... and yet it seems far more powerful than a defibrillator, jolting his heart from stasis into renewed life.

"A'right, Buffy. Just go back to sleep now, luv. I'm here."

The bed creaks only slightly as he joins her, brushing one tiny kiss to her forehead. He lies on top of the covers to keep a layer of insulation between her warm body and his cool one, gently draws her against his chest, and cradles her in his arms.

* * *

_To be continued..._

_Author's note: I know this chapter is shorter than usual, but I figured "medium wait for a short update with no major cliffhanger" was better than "long wait for a long update with major cliffhanger, and then an even longer wait". I'll update as soon as I feasibly can. You're all awesome and give such wonderful, thoughtful reviews!_

_Author's second note: If you've mentioned to me that you'd like to nominate me for round 29 of the Sunnydale Memorial Fanfic Awards, and you still plan on doing so, please just send me a quick message to let me know if/when you send it in or if you have any questions about the categories. I'd appreciate it! _


	26. Chapter 26: Count Every Moment

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

A/N: Thank you_ Vivi H88,_ _Fallen Priestess, Da0122, bowlingforvampires, TieDyeJackson, RiverTam09, Jedi SteelWolf, _and_ RinoaHeart_ for your reviews! And a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has followed or favorited! I thought I was going to be able to post this as early as last Sunday... but my computer stopped working without warning. Turns out my motherboard had fried, and I had to get a new laptop. Thankfully, I was able to recover the contents of my hard-drive, but learn vicariously: BACK UP YOUR DATA! Don't learn the hard way! (clambers down off my soapbox now)

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "I Was Made To Love You", both script and transcript quotes.

Disclaimer: Brief flashback section in this first scene is in _italics _and... it has smut, REAL SMUT, a LOT of real smut. I tried so very, very hard to put it off... but the characters said, "No, AGriffs, we _will _have our fun! It's our story!" so I let them have at it, and they literally ran amok.

_Previously on Buffy the Vampire Slayer: The Scoobies determine that April-the-Vampire-Defenestrator is a robot, Giles finds Spike and Buffy kissing on the porch, Joyce teases Buffy about leaving her knickers various places, and Spike sneaks back into Buffy's bedroom after patrolling and falls asleep at her side._

* * *

Chapter 26: Count Every Moment

"And you're certain she was a robot?" asks Giles, crossing from the cash register to the under-lit table.

"Absolutely," Buffy replies, while the other Scoobies nod their assent. Willow types away at her laptop – joined at the table by Buffy, Xander, and Tara – and Spike perches halfway up the ladder to the dark magic supplies, a book in his hands, Dawn sitting by his knee.

"She practically had 'Genuine Molded Plastic' stamped on her ass," says Tara brightly.

The clicking of Willow's computer pauses as she and Giles stare in surprise at the usually mild-mouthed witch.

"Just, uh, trying a little spicy talk," she shrugs, cheeks turning rosy.

"This April bird was lookin' for a bloke named Warren," Spike informs Giles, determined to remediate any hard feelings the Watcher might hold against him after catching him in heated lip-lock with Buffy last evening.

"Willow's already checked the Sunnydale enrollment," adds Buffy, smiling over at him. Waking up beside Spike – even though it wasn't the first time, and they were both fully dressed and committed to the immediate prospect of robot-research with the rest of the gang – had been so incredible and surprising that she would have thought it a dream if not for the smugly loving look that lingers in his eyes.

* * *

_She presses her face more firmly into a cool, smooth pillow that flexes as she nuzzles closer. Still garbed in her sweater and slacks, Buffy feels warm, cocooned, despite the room-temperature embrace of her lover._

"_You awake, luv?" His husky voice brushes across her hair._

"_Nnn-uhh," she mumbles noncommittally, her nose skimming the slight dip between his chest muscles, discernible through his tight, thin shirt. "Not morning yet."_

" '_Fraid it is mornin', sweets, just after sun-up. Can hear Mum and Dawnie bustlin' about."_

"_Mmm. Saturday. More sleep," Buffy insists, wresting her left hand free of the covers and caressing his arm. "What're they doing?"_

_His eyes close, letting his other senses investigate. "Playin' cartoons in the living room, Tom n' Jerry, I think. Mum's got coffee brewin', hazelnut. If the nose knows, Niblet's heatin' up frozen waffles in the toaster. Smells like chocolate chip, and... Mmmm..."_

_A much closer scent fills his head and body, his lover's eagerness, increasing in intensity as she shoves away the blankets that separate them and curls closer to him, one knee hitching over his thighs._

"_You slept with me," Buffy smiles into his collarbone, hands lazily trailing over his torso._

"_That I did. Slept with you before now, though. On the couch a few times, out on the back porch all those months ago..."_

"_Feels different. We're in an actual bed, and... why aren't you naked?"_

_Spike chuckles and hugs her close. "Am I naked in your dreams, Slayer?"_

"_Mmhmm."_

"_Glad to hear it. Couldn't tonight, though. Promised to be good an' quiet."_

"_What if I don't want to be good?" she murmurs, aching to touch and be touched. She squeezes his bicep while her other hand weaves between them and lifts the hem of his shirt. _

"_Kinda hard for you to _stop_ bein' so good, what with the whole destiny deal," replies Spike, his voice rasping lightly as she hikes the torn blue fabric up a little higher and closes her lips over one flat nipple. "Uh... 'nless you're optin' for another kind of 'good'. You tryin' to seduce me, pet? Buffy?"_

"_Well... what if only one of us has to be quiet at once?"_

_Smirking mischievously before he has the chance to respond, she works his belt strap through the buckle, unzips his jeans, and slides her hand inside to grasp his sheath._

"_Buuuffy," he groans, head thrashing back against the pillow, then bites his lip and looks cautiously at the door, impressing himself with his own self-denial. "Wait... luv, we... can't... th-th-they'll hear..."_

"_Mom and Dawn are busy enough to not be listening too well," she insists, reveling in the satisfaction of making William the Bloody stutter with just a stroke of her hand. But she knows why, knows that he craves every touch she grants him, every instant her skin brushes his, every gentle word... every sign that she really, possibly loves him. "As long as we don't rock the bed through the wall or anything. This feels nice, right?"_

"_Bloody obvious, in't it?" he whispers, already hardening in her hot grip._

_Beaming, she licks his nipple and feels his hand cautiously cup the back of her head, fingers twining in her hair. The scent of his skin entices her – leather and blood and a fresh grassy smell, no doubt from walking through the cemeteries last night – a cocktail fit for a Slayer. Her hand pumps slowly, tightly squeezing, and breathless moans drip from his mouth._

"_Ohhh... Buffy, c'mere. Kiss me, baby, please," he begs, and she hurtles up towards the light blue of his eyes until their lips crash together, her hand still gliding up and down his ivory rod. He thrusts his tongue in her eager mouth and shoves his jeans down a little lower on his hips to increase her access, then gropes desperately at her sweater._

"_No, just you," she shakes her head and kisses across his jawline, pulling his shirt completely off his body. "Hands off, Spike."_

"_I can't touch you, pet?"_

"_Not yet. Only one being quiet at a time, remember? I... I want to try something new. And I'd rather you close your eyes."_

"_Luv?" he gasps softly as her lips trace his siring mark._

"_I don't want you to watch. I haven't... done this very much. Don't know if I'm any good at it," she whispers, her face turning a few shades pinker as her hands anchor on his bony hips and her head slowly slides down his torso, kissing his rippling abs and still lower, past his naval._

"_Buffy...?"_

_He knows where she's heading – what she's about to do – but can't really believe it until she takes him in her mouth and sucks. Down, up, down more, an inch at a time until half his length feels consumed by fire._

"_Uhhhhh, oh baby. Oh god, Buffy..."_

_She lifts her head for just a moment, eyes gleaming, relishing her power over her quaking, vocal lover. "Shhh."_

"_Tryin'," he moans as she closes her mouth around him again. "Didn't... didn't know you'd... ohhhh. Oh Buffy..."_

_His arms reach up to grip the headboard, his hips thrusting, teeth clamping tightly together to muffle groans and roars of animal passion that would draw the attention of the entire neighborhood, let alone the other two females in the Summers' household. In barely any time, Buffy reduces him to low helpless grunting, head thrown back, eyes blazing speckles of gold within the blue._

"_Close, bloody close," he pants, prying a hand off the bed railing and reaching cautiously for her. "Buffy... Buffy, stop. Gotta stop. I'm–"_

_With an insistent sound in her throat, she pushes his fingers away and speeds up, hot mouth writhing on him. _

"_Bu–"_

_He bites hard into his lower lip and bucks up into her, gasping as he empties himself, gasping again when he feels her mouth constrict around him and swallow. The strength in all his muscles seems to dissolve, and he sags against the mattress, looking delightedly debauched._

"_Ohhhhh. Baby. Good god."_

_Buffy applies a final, cherry-on-top kiss to his naval as she zips his jeans back up, then slithers towards his face until she lies flat over his limp body, feeling heat radiate off his exposed skin._

"_T-tried to warn you," Spike croaks, meeting her eyes cautiously, his abdominals heaving though he doesn't need the air. "Didn't know if... if you wanted to..."_

"_I did want to," she interrupts with a kiss. "All the way. Just for you. Was that... okay?"_

"_Ohh, sweetheart... never had _anythin'_ feel so good. Uh... I _can_ last longer, you know," he says, surprised that after a hundred years anything could prompt him to feel like blushing nervously. "I never finish before my girl 'nless she tells me to. An' speakin' of..."_

"_Spike?"_

"_It's my turn," he growls softly, flipping them over with a twist of his hips._

"_But you just... oh!"_

"_Or rather, _your_ turn," he smirks, stripping her slacks off and working his thumb against her soaked panties. His other hand reaches inside the back of her sweater and undoes her bra clasp with deft fingers._

"_My luv's all sweaty," he purrs, baring more and more of her skin and kissing every part he uncovers."You always this hot an' bothered when you wake up, beautiful?"_

"_S-so are you," mouths Buffy, trailing her fingers through his damp hair. "Sweaty, I mean. A-and hot... Mm!"_

_She barely closes her lips in time to mute the tingling moan that bubbles up inside her as he draws one nipple into his mouth and flicks his tongue around it. His left hand imitates the motion on her other breast, tenderly fondling, rolling her rosy bud with his thumb._

"_Oh Spike!"_

"_Gotta keep quiet, luv. Just gettin' started. Just tastin' you... the salt on your lovely skin... know what I'm gonna taste next?"_

_His soft, sultry voice sends a rush of heat down past her belly, and he peels away her underwear and strokes two fingers along her wet entrance. She gasps, clenching her hands on his taut, creamy shoulders._

"_You like that, baby?"_

"_Mhm!"_

"_Good."_

_His lips rove over her naked breasts for a few more seconds before descending slowly, caressing her ribs. When he reaches her stomach she squeaks and writhes under him._

"_My, my. Ticklish, are we?" Spike inquires, smirking devilishly. He tongues her belly-button as his fingers part her velvet lips and slip gently inside, and Buffy's hands burrow into his hair and grip tight._

"_No t-t-t-tickling! I'll scream!"_

_He groans longingly, already painfully, achingly hard once more. "Save that for another time, then." _If I can manage to set her into a fit of giggles without triggerin' the bloody chip...

"_Spike..." she mewls, her tone turning skittish as he continues toward her little patch of pale curls and withdraws his fingers from her drenched sex._

"_Three seconds, pet. If you don't like it, I'll stop. Won't know if you fancy it 'nless you let me try."_

_He grins lustfully, knowing full well what her most likely response will be after three seconds of his tongue in her folds. Blushing, Buffy just nods, and Spike settles between her thighs, her knees over his shoulders, her feet resting midway down his bare back. Sapphire eyes fixing hers, he licks his lips and then his fingers, wet with her arousal._

"_Mmmm, sweet honey. Think I might stay down here a while. Eh, what's that look for?" he asks in sudden concern as her brows narrow and her cheeks redden still more. "Buffy?"_

"_You... you like how I taste?"_

"_Course I do. Why wouldn't..."_

_She bites her lip and turns her head away. "I'm sorry! I wasn't trying to think of... I was afraid you wouldn't..."_

_His heart clenches only slightly, and he presses his lips to her thatch of curls, eyes closing so she can't see the briefest spurt of pain flit through them. _Damn Soldier Boy. Damn him to the deepest, hottest circle of hell, lettin' her put her sweet mouth on him but not treatin' her in kind.

"_So you _do_ like this?" He strokes his thumb softly across her swollen lips, his mouth sliding closer, watering at the treat to be devoured. "Tried it before? You liked, he didn't?"_

"_I'm so, so sorry, Spike. I didn't mean to bring up..."_

"_Shh... I'm not mad, sweetheart," he insists, the note of a sob in her voice making him feel far worse than her half-confession had. "Shouldn't expect you to act like you've never had other lovers."_

"_Not... not _loved_, though, like you."_

She loves me. Closest she's ever come to sayin' it right an' proper.

"_Love you too, Buffy," he murmurs tenderly, mouth floating just barely above her bud. "Listen to me for just a moment. When we're in bed, worshipin' you is all I care about doin', however you want, as long as you want. I don't do somethin' right, you order me about 'till it's 'xactly perfect. Only the best for my girl."_

_He breathes a cool sigh onto her skin, sending trembles of anticipation coursing over her, her thighs fluttering with the faintest early spasms._

"_Spiiike..."_

"_Is this somethin' you want me to do, Buffy? Dreamed about me doin' this? Gonna let me eat you out?"_

_He smells the eager response of her body before her throat can force out any words, so he dives, tongue cleaving her, suckling her clit._

"_Oh! Oh! Oh god yes!"_

"_Can't hear you, baby. You like this?"_

"_Uh-huh!"_

"_You sure?" he simpers. His fingertips hold her lower lips apart as his tongue probes, and he reaches one hand up to her breast and gently squeezes. She whimpers her assent, her gasps climbing higher and higher, clenching his hair as his breath and his hands and his cool wicked tongue drive her rapidly toward her release._

"_Relax..." he murmurs a little later, emerging for only a moment, smiling with sticky lips. Buffy, who'd been half-sitting up for nearly the last minute, abdominals tensing and crunching with smaller climaxes, slowly sinks back against her pillows. "Still feel good, my luv?"_

"_So good. Still... like the taste?"_

"_Love it. Love you, Buffy."_

_He returns to her trembling sex, kissing lightly at first, then deeper, deeper, tongue savoring. Pumping two fingers in her slit, he rolls her nub in his mouth and nips it ever so slightly._

"_Ohh!" they both gasp, but for opposite reasons. She spasms, violently peaking, and he tumbles backwards off the bed, hitting the floor with a _thump! _as something white-hot seems to skewer through the back of his head._

"_Sp... Spike... did I kick you?"_

"_No, the soddin' chip," he winces, scrambling to his knees. "Can't suss out what's pain an' what's pleasure."_

"_All pleasure," she mewls happily, smiling and ravished. "Ooohh. God, that was amazing."_

"_Comin' back. Not done."_

"_But, I... I came..."_

"_I know," he grins ravenously, mounting the bed again. "Just thought I'd taste you s'more."_

"_We're being too loud," she whispers worriedly as he threads his arms around her hips again and breathes deep."What... what time is it?"_

"_Time for worship, my goddess..."_

* * *

Two minutes later... and a few minutes after that... and a few minutes after _that_...

"_There! Perfect! Spike! Oh god! Spike!"_

_She moans loudly and bursts inside yet again, and Spike drives his tongue in deeper, harder, ignoring the tiny nagging jolts the chip induces, lapping as her thighs squeeze his head and her hands yank through his hair. Her entire body quivers with her orgasm and then turns limp, and she gasps desperately, dazed with pleasure._

"_Sp... st-top. Too... m-much. B... broke something."_

"_Just your speakin' muscles, from the sound of it," he grins, resting his head on her shaking chest and listening to the rapid pumping of her blood. "Was that nice, precious?"_

"_Mmhmm. Really nice. Explosion-y, jelly-legs nice. You?"_

"_Wonderful," he chuckles, gently stroking her thigh with his fingertips. _Could've been better though, if not for the bleedin' chip. Clear as a bell she likes the 'rough' in rough-n-tumble. Makes perfect sense, powerful girl like her.

_"I was too loud. We're gonna be in sooo much trouble," Buffy mumbles into his hair. "I'm probably grounded for life."_

"_Doesn't sound too dire a punishment, luv. Just stay up here in bed with me."_

"_Mmmm."_

_She tugs at his shoulder until he scoots up, drawing the covers up with him. He brushes a kiss over her lips, burrows close to her side, and runs his knuckles between her breasts._

"_What are Mom and Dawn doing now?" mumbles Buffy, nearly drifting back to sleep, her body tingling contentedly. Spike grins._

"_Niblet turned up the telly right about the time I started doin' this..."_

"_Mmm– nmmm," she sighs as he starts kissing his way back down her collarbone and sucks lightly at her nipple. "Ohhhh... Baby, we've got to stop..."_

"_Not likely," he breathes. _Not when you're ascribin' pet names to me, now. _"I reckon I should've told you 'bout the volume, let you shout a bit more."_

"_I was mega loud already. Do... do you think they heard?"_

"_Nothin' too naughty," he reassures her._

"_Okay. I've just got a horrible mental picture of Mom waiting in the kitchen with a stake. Maybe she was only tolerant of us last night because she was still in La La I-had-a-date Land. Or maybe she was drunk."_

"_Wasn't drunk, pet, not _that_ drunk a'least. You said it yourself. Smart woman like your mum that knows what you need best, Slayer, is a partner in strength _and_ love, and only the man of your choosin', not the one your mates try to force on you. Extraordinary girl can't have a 'normal' love life."_

" _'Cuz I'm abnormal," she snickers._

"_The best kind," he whispers, fingers threading in her hair before he tenderly closes his mouth against hers. Her lips part for him, only slightly aware that the heady flavor on his tongue is her own._

"_Buuuuu-ffyyyyyyy! Anya's calling!"_

_At the sound of Dawn's gleeful drawn-out shout somewhere downstairs, Buffy shoves Spike to the side and rockets off the bed, tugging her bathrobe down from her closet door._

"_Oh my gosh! What time is it?! We said we were all going to research the robot! And why are you smirking?"_

" _'Cuz my lovely Slayer is dancin' about naked in front of me."_

"_I'm not dancing!" Buffy protests, wrapping herself in the terrycloth robe and blushing crimson. "Uh... think. You can't sneak out 'cause it's daytime, s-so I guess we'll both have to go downstairs. You can say you did sleep on the rug if they ask. And... you need a shirt."_

"_You don't think it'll help our chances if I waltz out like this?" asks Spike, suggestively indicating his bare chest._

"_Maybe. Or we'll be deader. Hey... look."_

_She opens the door just slightly and seizes something up from the ground._

"_Luv?"_

"_Problem solved," says Buffy, turning around and tossing a small wad of black cotton at him. "I bet Dawn put this here. You must have left it before Christmas."_

"_Thought I was one short," he nods, shrugging the t-shirt over his shoulders._

"_Buuu-ffyyyy! Phone!"_

"_Just a minute!" the Slayer hollers down at her sister before scurrying out into the hallway bathroom. Spike stands, pulls on his belt and boots, and straightens her mussed covers before she returns, hair damp from a hasty shower._

"_Aw, now you've got me wantin' to undress you again, luv," he smirks, pulling her close by the bathrobe tie around her waist. "All wet an' clean smelling..."_

"_Stop that!" she hisses as he licks water droplets from her neck. "Uh... g-go downstairs and find out what the phone call's about. I'll be down when I'm decent."_

"_Not gonna let me watch?"_

"_We'll never get anywhere! There's a crazed robot still on the loose. Watching later."_

_She pushes back on his chest until he sighs and picks up his duster. "A'right, sweetheart, a'right."_

_Blowing her a kiss as he slips out of her bedroom, Spike treads down the stairs and into the kitchen, immediately noticing all the window blinds are shaded to accommodate his presence. Dawn and Joyce sit at the island with matching ceramic mugs before them, eyeing him expectantly. The teenager looks as though a flood of giggles is about to burst out of her face, while Mrs. Summers remains inscrutable as she meets Spike's gaze._

"_Uh... mornin', ladies," he mumbles, clearing his throat a bit and setting his duster on a vacant stool._

"_Good morning, Spike," says Joyce, slightly formal._

"_Hey Spike. I saved you my marshmallows," snickers Dawn, pointing at a pile of little white puffballs on a napkin._

"_Awful nice of you, Niblet. Uh... heard there was a ring for Buffy?"_

"_Oh, yeah, Anya called, said she wants everybody at the Magic Shop, even me! I told her Buffy was _veeeery_ busy and she should call back in half an hour."_

"_Yes, Spike, where is Buffy?" asks Joyce pointedly._

"_Gettin' dressed... that is, I..." He pales and swallows. "Uh... well, uh..."_

_Dawn's cheeks can't contain her mirth any longer. She swings her legs off the stool and goes barreling into the living room, laughing her head off. Joyce purses her lips._

"_I thought I told you two that the bed creaks."_

"_Y-yes, ma'am," Spike hastily replies, feeling more and more like his hundred years of punk vampire exterior are being stripped away, leaving only timid William Pratt standing before his lover's mother. "It... uh, well, yes, it does. Sorry."_

"_What happens in my house affects _both_ of my daughters, Spike."_

"_Yes, ma'am. We'll be quieter next t– uh, I mean..." _Dammit, just diggin' myself into a deeper hole!

"_I understand that when two young people love each other, they make certain decisions about how they spend their time," says Mrs. Summers seriously. "I know. I was young once."_

"_Still younger than me by a century," shrugs Spike, before his head processes all of Joyce's statement. "You... you think Buffy loves me?"_

"_Certainly. I can tell, just as I can tell that you love her."_

_A world's worth of heaviness lifts from his shoulders. _Not just imaginin' it, hopin' for it. It's real. Her mum knows, an' Mums always know best.

"_So," Joyce continues in a gentler voice, watching the smile light up his face, "while I understand you might want to... spend the night... there need to be rules."_

"_Y-yes, Mum. Of course, Mum."_

"_There is a pull-out sofa in the basement, if the need arises for certain... activities that other family members do not need to overhear."_

"_Yes, Mum."_

"_And I'd prefer this didn't occur here frequently. What you and Buffy decide to do at your, well, crypt... is your decision, as long as you treat my daughter with the utmost love and care. Do you understand?"_

"_Yes, Mum."_

"_If you ever hurt her..."_

"_Don't need to finish that threat, Mum. I'll offer myself up to the sun before you or Rupes or anyone else can drive well-deserved wood into me. I swear, Joyce, I'll be faithful to her an' love her 'till there's nothin' left of me but ash on the wind."_

_"Thank you, Spike. You're a good man. I... I trust you to love my daughter."_

"_Can I come back in now?" giggles Dawn, poking her head in from the living room. "You put the Holy Fear of Mom into him yet?"_

"_Yes, I do believe so," answers Joyce, smiling tenderly. "Spike, there's still some blood left in the fridge if you're thirsty."_

"_Much obliged, Mum," he nods, reaching for the refrigerator handle and only then realizing how much his knees are quaking. _Holy Fear of Mum, no joke_. He finds a mug, half fills it with blood, and tops it off with coffee before popping the cup in the microwave._

"_Morning," says Buffy brightly and nonchalantly as she enters, wearing a v-necked red shirt that Spike's instantly dying to touch. Swallowing, he narrows his eyes on the ceramic mug's handle as it spins in the microwave._

"_Anya wants you and me and Spike in the Magic Box, and she wants us there an hour ago," says Dawn._

"_What for? It's only..." She glances at the nearest clock for her answer and is pleasantly shocked. _Eight? How is it only eight? We were... it felt like hours...

_The clamoring phone breaks into her thoughts, and Buffy rushes over and picks up the receiver._

"_Buffy Summers?"_

"_Buffy!" Anya's voice shouts in her ear. "Thank D'Hoffryn! Are you and Spike done having sex yet? I need you! It's a mad house here!"_

"_What?" she gapes, blushing and turning her face away so her mother can't see. "But... I thought you don't open until ten on weekends."_

"_Are you kidding? We've been open since six! Post-Valentine's Day weekend has to be one of the busiest times of the year! Jilted lovers! Broken hearts! The perfect opportunity for a forward-thinking capitalist to make some serious dough."_

"_How do you know? You and Giles have only had the shop for, like, six months."_

"_Buffy, I worked the vengeance circuit, and if there's one thing I learned in eleven hundred years, it's that come Valentine's Day, there's a need for mucho mojo, and moolah to be made! So put Spike's clothes back on and get over here!"_

"_Why do you want Dawn too?" Buffy demands, floundering for other, more Mom-safe topics._

"_I'm going to put her to work, you dummy! Cheap labor. Don't tell the health inspector, though. Child labor is illegal."_

"_Sure, sure, I won't tell the health inspector about my indeterminately-aged sister selling charms and essential oils in a magic shop," snorts Buffy. "Fine. We'll be there soon."_

"_Hurry!" orders Anya as Buffy sets the white phone back in its cradle._

"_Um, Mom, is it okay if Spike and I take Dawn with us to the Magic Box? I promise not to let her read or touch or breathe anything icky."_

"_I see no reason why not. Just have her back before dark. And Buffy..."_

"_Uh-huh?" Buffy pinches the inside of her lip in her teeth, recognizing 'The Mom Face'._

"_Spike and I had a little chat. He can tell you about it later."_

"_Oh. Um. Okay."_

"_It's about your creaky bed," Dawn adds in a mock-helpful voice, winking. Buffy just cringes._

* * *

"I've got nothing," shrugs Willow, jarring Buffy out of her blissful stare-down with the grinning vampire. "I found one Warren, but he moved out of the country a year ago. I'm checking nearby schools."

"Whoever he is, he knows his stuff," nods Xander. "That girl... well, that was a nice looking girl."

Tara and Buffy glance dubiously at him.

"It's okay for him to say that, 'cause I know that he really loves me only," Anya calls out from behind the counter. The shop isn't as full as she'd made it out to be over the phone, only around a dozen customers milling about, leaving the Scoobies plenty of privacy to discuss the April-bot.

"Is there something the rest of us could be doing?" inquires Giles, tugging yet another spell book out of Dawn's hands.

"Why, you don't have books on robots, do you?" she snarks, crossing her arms.

"Oh, yes, dozens," he replies, sending a chill of dread through Buffy and Xander. "There's an enormous amount of research we should do before – no I'm lying. I haven't got squat. I just like to see Xander squirm."

"Funny," mutters the carpenter wryly. "Charming and funny."

"Hey! I think I found him," Willow announces excitedly, and the rest of the gang gather around her laptop screen. "Warren Mears. He went to Sunnydale High with us for a semester, and then he went to the tech college over in Dutton. I've got a local address where his folks still live."

Tara hands her a paper to scribble down the address, which Buffy then picks up.

"Well, I guess I'll go talk to him."

"No, no, we don't know what you're walking into," Giles protests, edging away from one of the closer customers and lowering his voice. "We have no idea what his motive is in building this thing."

Everyone except Dawn raises their eyebrows at Giles.

"Pretty obvious, in't it, Watcher," Spike mutters, reaching forward to cover Dawn's ears. "Reckon it's... well..."

"Um, don't you think she's sort of a..." Tara trails off suggestively.

"Yeah, she must just be a..." says Willow in the exact same tone as the other two.

"She's a _sex-bot_," blurts out Xander. Giles turns away with a huff and trades places with Anya as the boy continues, "I mean, what guy doesn't dream about that. Beautiful girl with no thought but to please you, willing to do anything..."

He finally registers the skeptical, disgusted, slightly accusatory looks that Buffy, Willow, Tara, and Anya are giving him.

"Too many girls," he shudders. "I miss Oz. He'd understand. He wouldn't say anything, but... he'd get it."

"Wouldn't be the same," Spike disagrees, releasing a squirmy Dawn and locking eyes with Buffy from across the room. "Wouldn't feel right. Skin's got to move just so under your hands, heat up in just the right places, blush and tremble. Gotta smell love's perfume on it, 'cause there's no true pleasure unless she's in bliss 'cuz of you. Can't make a doll do that."

Buffy looks away quickly, her cheeks warming.

"You're disturbing," Xander remarks, scooting farther from where Spike stands half-reclining against the ladder.

"I thought it was sexy," shrugs Anya. Willow and Tara give tiny nods of assent. "And Spike has a point. Why would someone pick a robot when they could have a real live person?"

"Maybe he couldn't, you know, find a real person," Willow offers.

"Oh, come on," mutters Buffy. "The guy's just a big wedge of sleaze. Don't make excuses for him."

"I'm not! I'm just saying... people get lonely, and... maybe having someone around, even someone you made up... maybe it's easier."

"But it's so weird," cuts in Dawn, scowling as Giles takes away yet another book.

"Which is why I have to tell him his love-bot's on the rampage and could hurt people that _I_ love," Buffy responds, pulling on her coat and scarf. "Coming, Spike?"

"Uh, luv... daylight. Already got a bit crispy on the way here."

"Oh, right. Could we, um, talk for just a second?"

"Of course," he answers, brows lowering in confusion as he follows her into the training room. "Somethin' the matter?"

"You shouldn't have done that," she huffs once the door closes, giving them privacy.

"Done what, luv?"

Buffy rolls her eyes. "You know... that thing you did."

"What are you goin' on about?"

"_You know_!" she hisses more loudly, and when he continues to look baffled, "Said... said that sexy stuff, and undressed me with your eyes. In front of everybody!"

"Don't see what the problem is, luv. It wasn't anythin' nearly as bad as what Demon Gal's always goin' on about, sharin' whatever new favorite game she an' Harris have been up to."

"But that's different. They're..."

"Out of the closet?" he grins at her, stepping close enough to caress her sleeve with a hand. "Thought we'd gone public too. Approval from Mum, fewer nasty glares in my direction from Watcher, you callin' me your 'boyfriend' an' 'Baby' an' everythin' now."

"Well... yes, but...

"Buffy!" Dawn comes charging in, panic on her face. "Buffy, I totally spaced! I was supposed to meet Janet and Lisa and Kevin at school for this art project! We got behind and arranged special out-of-class time with the teacher to make it up! She was already way unhappy we had to move it to Saturday. If I miss this, my grade's totally in the toilet!"

Buffy's shoulder's droop, and Spike rubs her neck gently.

"I can hustle the Niblet over to school, if you'd like. Give you time to hunt down Robo-boy. Then I'll head back to Restfield so you can ring me up if things go south."

"Really?" say both Dawn and Buffy at the same moment.

"A'course," he grins. "Just phone your mum and let her know 'bout this little surprise. What time you s'posed to be there, Platlet?"

"Nine-fifteen."

"A'right. Dash back in there, ring up Mum, an' ask Harris if he's got some gloves I can borrow so I don't char my hands on the way."

Dawn nods rapidly and skips back through the training room door, and Buffy leans into Spike.

"You _better_ not char your hands. I like your hands."

"Glad to hear it, sweetling."

"What did Mom say to you?"

Spike beams into her hair. "Told me that any nightly noises at your house are best done in the basement, far away from her and Niblet. Said we could do whatever we wanted in my crypt, though. And... and she said she can see... see that you love me."

_I do... I do love you... why does my stupid throat keep closing up?_

She nods against his chest. "She knows I'd be a mess without you."

"Not givin' yourself enough credit there, luv. Even puttin' aside the Slayer qualities, you're a right powerful woman. Strength of character's a whole lot better than nose-punchin' strength, if you ask me. But also... Red was right earlier. Hard bein' lonely. Havin' someone to trust with all your secrets, someone to love... makes everythin' else in your life come more easily, more natural."

"You really are a poet," she smirks, and he rolls his eyes.

"Aw, makin' me blush, pet."

Before she can counter with a teasing '_Vampires don't blush, silly!'_ he captures her lips, only stopping when the sounds of Dawn's pattering feet approach the door again.

"Ready, Niblet?" he asks, panting slightly, while Buffy straightens her scarf and waits for the aroused redness to fade from her own cheeks.

"Yep! Here're the gloves!"

"Good on Xander," he says appreciatively, pulling the roomy gloves up past his wrists. "Should keep the feelers nice an' safe. You told Mum what you're up to?"

"Uh-huh! She said to say 'thanks', and that you're welcome to come over for lasagna tonight. She promises not to put any garlic in it."

"How comfortin'," he shudders as she scampers back into the main room of the Magic Box. "Right-o. Another round of VBS."

"Vacation Bible School?" asks Buffy, perplexed.

"Vampire Babysittin' Services," he smirks. "Guess I'll see you later, luv."

She leans up to kiss him, but ducks her lips towards his ear at the last second and whispers, "Your place tonight. Loud as we want."

An eager tremble runs through his body. "Dinner at your mum's, patrol, then... after?"

"Yes."

"It's a date, then, Slayer," Spike murmurs, drawing back from her ear and softly kissing her.

* * *

It doesn't take a genius – or even a nearly-flunking college student – to instantly figure out why Warren Mears is having woman troubles.

"Katrina, please be quiet, okay?" he huffs at his brunette girlfriend while Buffy awkwardly stands in the doorway. "This is important. Wait in the kitchen."

"And _I'm_ not important? Warren, just tell her to go away!"

Warren stares at Buffy and fidgets guiltily. "I can't."

"You're keeping secrets from me!" Katrina yells. "Other girls, and who knows what else?"

_You got that right_, Buffy agrees inside her head. _Obsessed robot girls_.

"Trina, shut up," Warren says gruffly, rolling his eyes.

"That's it! Forget it, Warren, I'm gone!" shouts Katrina, dropping the duffel that Warren had shoved into her hands. She storms through the doorway past Buffy, who sighs and steps inside to deal with a distraught Warren.

"No, Katrina! Wait..."

"My name is Buffy Summers," she interrupts his useless pleading, her expression a more sarcastic version of her usual demon-fighting face. "We were at Sunnydale High together. Do you know who I am?"

"Yes, I know," he mumbles. "Uh, April, did she hurt someone?"

"At least one person I'm aware of, along with a certain blue shirt, and I'm a bit pissed about that, actually."

"She's looking for me. You know, uh, she followed me here."

"Figured that out already. Why else do you think I'd be here?"

"No, no, there's more," Warren protests, pacing anxiously. "There's something you need to know about her."

"Already got the memo, buster."

"No, this is something important. Something you couldn't _possibly_ know."

Buffy folds her arms and sits on the arm of a sofa, rolling her eyes. Warren inhales.

"She's a robot."

"Y'uh-huh," nods Buffy, almost anticipating something more dramatic. "Not as hard as you'd think to piece that one together. You have girl troubles, pretty obviously. So naturally you turned to manufacturing."

"Kinda, he mumbles.

"How long'd it take to build yourself that little toy?"

"Hey, she's _not_ a toy," Warren pouts defensively. "I mean, I know what you're thinking, but she's more than that."

"I'm sure she has many exciting labor-saving attachments..."

"No, I made her to love me. She cares about what I care about and she wants to be with me. She listens to me and supports me. I didn't make a toy. I made a girlfriend."

"Doesn't sound like the love worked both ways," she deduces.

"I... I don't know. I mean, she's perfect... but I guess it was too... easy. Predictable. You know, she got... boring." He stares contemplatively at Buffy. "She was exactly what I wanted, and I didn't want her. I thought I was going crazy."

"Oh, really? You?" Buffy grumbles, her eyes getting sore from all the rolling. _Crazy as all get out, Dr. Frankenstein, Jr_.

"Then... Katrina was in my engineering seminar, and she was really funny and cool. She was always giving me a hard time... real unpredictable. She builds these little model monorails that run with magnets..."

"Swell. Romance and magnetic trains," snorts Buffy. "But you still decided to take April out of her box, play with her for five minutes, and then what? Got bored, dumped her, told her to go away?"

"Kinda," he shrugs again.

"She didn't want to go, huh?"

"Okay... I didn't really dump her so much as I kinda... uh, went out and didn't come back. I left her... in my dorm room."

Surprised that her disgust with this boy could ratchet up any higher, Buffy stands and gapes at him. "You _left_ her in your dorm room?"

"I figured I could just get away until her batteries ran down, which should have been days ago. She must be recharging them somehow."

"Warren, this is important," insists Buffy, moving back towards the door and hauling him with her. "Is she dangerous?"

"She's only programmed to be in love," he shrugs.

"Then she's dangerous." _Dangerous as I would have been if I'd known Drusilla was there, hurting Spike, trying to steal him away_. "Do you have any idea how to find her?"

"She's looking for me," he replies, grabbing his jacket. "My guess is... she's probably close."

They rush out into the street, staring around, but neither Katrina nor the plastic-ly smiling robot are in sight.

"April!" calls Warren. "If the batteries are still working and she hears my voice, she'll respond. Otherwise it causes this feedback loop..."

"Wait, if you call her, and she doesn't answer, it _hurts_ her?" demands Buffy in heightened disgust. Warren gives her a '_what's the big deal?_' kind of shrug. "You are one creepy little dweeb, Warren."

"April!" he shouts again.

"Warren!" a voice replies from the nearby playground.

Buffy and Warren rush over and then screech to a halt, gasping. Looking mildly confused, April the robot holds Katrina aloft by the neck, the later motionless.

"Where have you been?" asks April nervously, as if expecting punishment. "I couldn't find you, and this girl kept lying to me, and... then she went to sleep."

"April, what did you do?!" Warren demands, terrified.

"Please don't be angry, Warren," begs the confused robot. "I'm trying very hard to make you happy."

"April... I want you to put the girl down," says Buffy, steady and calm, eyes on the limp form of Katrina.

"Warren?" asks April, hesitating.

"Pu-put her down. Buffy. Give her to Buffy!"

April obeys, frowning at Warren's harsh tone as she lets Katrina's body sag into Buffy's arms. Buffy lowers the barely-breathing girl to a park bench.

"She's alive," she reassures a panting Warren, who turns back to April, jaw shaking.

"Warren, honey, is something wrong? Why did you go away? I waited a long time and you never came back. I knitted you five sweaters."

"That's, uh, that's great. So... you could go back and get them, and, uh, wait there..."

"Warren," Buffy says harshly, carefully checking Katrina's neck. "You have to tell her. And _do it right_."

"What... what is she saying?" asks April worriedly. "What do you need to tell me?"

"April, I... I made a mistake."

"Oh, you can't make mistakes," the pink-garbed girl laughs, as if solving the trick question on a test. Buffy rolls her eyes at the sky.

"N-no, I did," continues Warren as April's face becomes more and more confused. "I thought that I made you everything I wanted... but it wasn't _really_ what I wanted. I'm... I'm sorry, but it's over. I can't love you."

A faint chirping alarm begins sounding as April's eyes widen, her head twitching as she stares at her creator.

"I love _her_," he shouts shrilly, retreating from the sandy lot around the swing-set. April turns to Buffy and unmistakably snarls, showing perfect teeth.

"She _growls_? You made her so she _growls_?" Buffy gawks. _Growling is only sexy when Spike does it._

Before Warren can finish his sheepish reply, April grabs Buffy by her coat collar and hurls her across the entire playground area. She lands in the grass behind the see-saw, which April then wrenches out of the ground and snaps in half.

"Whoa, now," Buffy mutters, trying to calm the raging robot while still ducking as she swings the see-saw board at her. "Not after your man, April. I've got one of my own. Substantially sexier, not to mention immortal. Drinks blood, though. That's a slight downer. Oh, and you owe him a blue shirt, preferably spandex."

She catches the board and wrenches it out of April's hands, then swings it across her stomach, slashing through dress and rubber skin to reveal sparkling electronics. Infuriated, the robot charges Buffy, punching the broken board to the ground. As they grapple, neither notices Katrina rise from the bench, point at their fight with revoltion in her eyes, and take off, Warren whimpering at her heels.

Buffy manages to get a swing-set between herself and April and shimmies a few feet up one of the chains before kicking the robot, then smashing the swing into her. April regroups much faster than she expects, grabbing Buffy's throat and lifting her into the air like she did with Katrina.

"You... took my man... I'm... going to kill you... Kill... Can't... Can't crush..."

Gasping fresh air back into her lungs, Buffy drops to her feet and rubs her neck, watching April slowly gaze at her own hand, bewildered.

"So... tired..." whispers the robot, strength gone. Filled with sudden pity, Buffy guides April onto one of the swings, then sits on an adjacent one, gazing around at the midmorning suburban area.

"Can you cry?" Buffy asks gently. "Sometimes I feel better when I cry, but... there may be rust issues."

"Crying is blackmail. Good girlfriend don't cry," April replies in a rote voice.

_Not necessarily. Manipulative crying, yeah. Crying because the world is crashing around your ears and he's the only thing holding you up... definitely okay. Maybe I started loving him a lot earlier than I thought. Love, trust, comfort... shared between us, like the whole 'three sticks are harder to break than one stick' analogy... or maybe that's just something Xander said_.

"I rechecked everything," whispers the robot girl with a sigh. "I did everything I was supposed to. I was a good girlfriend. If I can't love him... what am I for? What do I exist for?"

"I don't know," Buffy answers, saddened by the resigned sweetness in April's voice. "It isn't fair. He wasn't fair to you."

Too weak to lift her head, April's eyes circle around the playground, then still, unfocused. "It's getting dark. It's too early to be dark."

"Yeah," says Buffy, gently patting April's arm. "You want to go to sleep, sweetie?"

The girl smiles. "Maybe this is a girlfriend test. If I wait here patiently this time... he'll come back."

"I'm... I'm sure he will," Buffy lies, blinking unexpected moisture out of her eyes. _Must be the sand_. "He'll... he'll tell you how sorry he is, and... how proud he was of you, and how impressed he was with how much you loved him and how you tried to help him."

April smiles. "He's going to take me home... and things will be right again."

"It'll be fine," nods Buffy, blinking away tears again.

"When... things are sad... you just have to be patient. Because... every... every cloud has... a silver lining. And... when life... gives you lemons... make... lemonade."

"Clouds and lemonade," Buffy murmurs with a trembling lip. April's voice continues gradually becoming slower, deeper... winding down to death.

"Yes... and... and... things... are always... darkest... just... before..."

"_Dawn_," Buffy finishes in a whisper, gazing at the girl's frozen, still smiling face. She waits another few seconds, almost hoping that April's batteries will make another comeback, then wipes her eyes and stands with a heavy shrug of her shoulders. _Need major Spike-or-Mom-huggage now._

Setting off briskly for her house, Buffy ponders what to do with the remains of the robot. She'll have to ask Willow if Warren's address came with a phone number. Maybe that would have been the better thing to do in the first place. Dial him, wait for his dweeby, nasal voice to answer, and then say, "Guess what, perv, Robo-girlfriend is looking for you. Mail a dark blue, long-sleeved, spandex shirt to 1630 Revello Drive." Yeah, loads of ways that could have gone wrong too. At least now Katrina knows what a douche Warren is, Buffy acknowledges as she unlocks her front door.

"Hey, Mom!" she calls out cheerily, hanging up her black coat and scarf. She glances up the stairs, then into the dining room before noticing a large bouquet of brightly colored flowers on the foyer table. "Ooh."

She flips open the card that dangles from the bouquet and reads in a handwriting she doesn't recognize, "_Thank you for a lovely evening. See you soon? Brian._"

"Still a couple guys getting' it right," Buffy smiles at the scrap of white cardboard. Setting it down, she leans on the stairway banister and shouts toward her mother's bedroom door, wondering if she's up there reading like she often does on quiet Saturday mornings.

"Hey! Flower-gettin' lady. Want me to pick Dawn up from her school project or help with lasagna-making?"

Curious at the silence in the house, she turns around and is about to check the basement when she spots Joyce resting on the couch in the living room.

"Mom? What are you doing?" Buffy asks, stepping jovially from the stairs and into the warm room.

Joyce doesn't stir.

"Mom?"

Doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.

"... Mom?"

Doesn't breath.

"... Mommy?"

* * *

_To be continued..._

_Author's note: No amount of begging or persuasion will change what I've decided will happen in the next chapter. I know I can't please everyone. It's already enough pressure for me as a huge fan of the show to try to create something worthy of one of the most flawless episodes (artistically). That being said... please focus reviews on the content of this chapter and keep them free of "please don't really do A-B-C to character X-Y-Z". I'll update as soon as I feasibly can. You're all awesome and give such wonderful, thoughtful reviews!_


	27. Chapter 27: The Body

Five Words or Less

Author: AGriffinWriter

**Buffy the Vampire Slayer** belongs to Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy. This chapter adapts scenes from "The Body", both script and transcript quotes. So much of the power of this episode is in the shots, the silence, and the slow, grim movement, which is really hard to convey in the written word, but I did my best. There's also more swearing than I usually have - still mild for an M fic, but unusual for my writing.

* * *

Chapter 27: The Body

"_Mom? Mom mom mom mom mom... MOM!... H-hello?... M-my mom, she's not breathing... N-no, I-I-I can't, sh-she's not breathing... What?... Si-sixteen thirty Revello, i-it's a house, Revello near Hadley... Yes... No, no, I-I came home and she – What should I do?... No, I don't remember... I know this. I know this. God... I can do this. Okay. Okay... one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight... One, two, three – Oh! Oh god!... I, are you there? I-I broke something... It cracked... No... She's c-cold... No, my mom! Sh-should I make her warm?... When will they be here?... I have to make a call..."_

* * *

"Oh cripes!"

Spike rolls over, tangling his naked legs even further in his sheets as the phone blares to life beside his ear.

"Thing never gets any quieter," he mumbles amusedly, reaching for the receiver. "Ello?"

"Spike. You have to come."

It's Buffy's voice, but without inflection, like a machine tuned to her exact soprano.

"Buffy, luv, is'at you?" Spike demands, suddenly alert though he'd been sleeping a moment before now. He'd managed to drop Dawn off at Sunnydale Middle School without drawing too much undue attention to himself, then high-tailed it into the nearest manhole, through the sewers, and into his crypt, falling exhaustedly and contentedly onto his bed as soon as he'd stripped his clothes off.

"She's at the house." _Click_

"Buffy? You there, pet? Ello? Buffy?!"

Terrified, he rips away the covers and yanks on his jeans, keeping the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear, praying he'll hear something other than the dead silence. His imagination runs amok with panicked suggestions as he gropes for his remaining clothes.

_Gotta be Glory_ – thrusting his belt through the loops in his jeans_ – Niblet's not there, though, safe at school, safe as houses_ – shoving his feet into his boots – _But maybe Glory's got Buffy... her and Mum, held hostage. Must've been why she spoke so quiet-like_ – yanking a black t-shirt over his lean shoulders_ – Sounded worse than quiet, sounded... Dear god, what has the hellbitch done to her?_

Leaving his duster on the floor of the lower chamber, Spike shoves Xander's spare gloves back onto his hands, grabs a burlap blanket from a corner, and sprints into the sewers, his boots pounding through low-lying water. His heavy, throbbing heart sinks deeper into his stomach with each hurried step, and he hikes the blanket over his head as he scurries up a service ladder and out into the open air a block down Revello from Buffy's house.

"Oh dear god..."

The front door is open, gaping, and all thoughts of entering with subtlety vanish from Spike's mind. His protective covering starts sizzling dangerously as he charges down the street, a few bits of cloth igniting where his skin comes closest to the fierce sunlight.

"Buffy!" He bursts into the foyer, slams the front door shut behind him, and hurls the burning blanket to the floor, stomping out the flames with a foot. "Buffy, luv! Where are you?!"

"Spike..."

Her voice is the faintest breath, barely audible to even his vampire ears. Shedding the gloves, he spots her seated on her knees in the little walkway between the kitchen and the living room, a folded sheet of paper towel on the floor beside her. He can smell her sick on the carpet.

"Buffy?" he gasps, tensely vigilant though she appears otherwise unharmed. "What's happened, pet? Glory?"

"I'm waiting... the coroner's coming," Buffy says in the same flat, near-silent tone. "Then I have to tell Dawn... she's at school... I have to go there."

Her eyes drift away from him as though in slow motion, fixing first on the living room sofa, then – even slower – on the floor. Spike's head turns left for the first time, even as his keen nose registers the scent of death.

"Oh, god... Oh, please god, no… Joyce? Joyce, pet... Mum, wake up..."

As irrational as he knows his action is, he nevertheless drops to his knees beside Buffy's mother and gently cradles her hand in both of his, checking for a pulse.

"No. No... d-don't touch her... th-they're coming for her... don't..." Buffy rises unsteadily and stumbles toward him, her shaky voice growing in volume and hysteria until she stands just behind Spike. "We're not supposed to move the _body_!"

Her own words seem to sling through the air like a boomerang and smack her in the gut. _The body. My mom is dead. Just a body. Gone_. Buffy raises her hand over her mouth and wheezes helplessly, tears leaking from her eyes without sobs to keep them steady.

"Oh, Buffy... oh, god, sweetheart, I'm so sorry."

Spike gently lays Joyce's cold hand back upon the floor before rushing to Buffy and wrapping his arms around her, holding her shoulders tightly. She stares unblinkingly over his sleeve at the body and then suddenly pushes away from him, a gargled choking coming from her throat.

"Oh god. Here, luv, right here," he nods, shoving open the hallway bathroom door. She falls in front of the toilet and vomits again, clutching the porcelain bowl in both hands.

"Steady, luv... I've got you..."

He kneels beside her violently trembling form and holds her hair out of her sweat-peppered face until her retching passes. Wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, Buffy slumps against the bathroom wall, nearly motionless except for her chin trembling against Spike's collarbone. He gently presses his lips to her clammy forehead.

"I'm here, baby, lean on me... oh my darling..."

"S... She...I said…"

"Oh, sweetheart, your fingers," he murmurs pitifully. He draws her hands together and rubs them between his own, urging peach color back into them as the fingertips start to turn blue. "Can't go into shock, Buffy. Look a'me, baby, gotta breathe," he insists, lifting her chin until her swimming eyes focus on his. "Nice an' easy. Breathe with me. Breathe in... now let it out... now breathe again... that's it, darling. Gonna hold it in now, or gonna be sick s'more?" _Can't be much more left in her, just the bit of breakfast she had before we scarpered over to the shop._

She gives a tiny shake of her head, but it's enough to force two bulbous tears out of her glazed eyes.

"Okay. Feel anythin' comin' back up, loo's right here, baby. Gonna get you some water, a'right?"

She responds with a slightly side-ways nod, and her hand returns to grip the edge of the toilet instead of Spike's wrist. Standing, he rushes out of the bathroom and into the kitchen, only to shy backwards, hissing as his skin blisters in the mid-day sunlight through the now-open blinds.

"Sod it," he grunts, dashing forward and spinning the knob so that the blinds tilt upwards on the back door window and the one by the sink. He grabs a glass from a cabinet, opens the freezer, and holds his singed hands inside for a few moments before thrusting the glass under the faucet. About to return to Buffy, he pauses at the side table and snatches up the phone, jabbing the speed dial for Giles's flat.

"Hello?" says the Watcher's voice after the third ring.

"Rupert!" Spike pants. _Thank God the shop isn't as busy as Demon Gal kept implyin'._ "Get the hell over to Buffy's, quick as you can. Mum's dead."

Without waiting for Giles to reply, Spike slams the phone against the cradle and carries the glass of water into the bathroom.

"Here, my luv, drink this. Just a little now…"

Her fingers reach tentatively for the glass, and he ensures she has a secure grip on it before releasing it. Still quaking and sweating, Buffy lifts the cup and takes a sloppy gulp, water running down her chin onto her red shirt and increasing the intensity of her shivers.

"Sweetheart..."

His own vision blurs with tears, and he drags the heel of one hand roughly across his eyes, the other hand tenderly kneading Buffy's shoulder. She seems barely aware of his presence, almost comatose.

"Dearest? Dearest luv... please, let me take you upstairs, find you somethin' dry to wear. You've sweat through your clothes, pet, never-mind the water. C'mon, Buffy, c'mere..."

Clutching the half-empty glass in both hands, she curls into a ball against his chest, and he scoops her up – one arm beneath her knees and the other around her back – and carries her like a sleeping child up the steps. He nudges her bedroom door open with one foot, barely able to believe it's been less than five hours since they woke together on her bed.

"Sit here, sweetness, please."

He lowers her to the chair by her vanity, and her limbs unclench until she slumps in the seat, the glass of water still held rigidly in both of her hands. Spike brushes her hair out of her face once more before crossing to her closet and flicking through the rack.

_Dear God in Heaven… she's gonna be wearin' whatever I pick out to the hospital… maybe to the funeral home… Oh, blast! Why couldn't Tara be – no, not dear Tara, not after what she's just had to suffer on account of me… Red, yeah, Red would help. She'd know what'd look proper… or, maybe not, with all the fireworks of color she's always sportin'. Oh, sod it all…_

"Buffy, luv?" Spike finally whispers, turning way from the closet with a layered sepia blouse, one that had caught his eye and sparked a horde of memories from last fall. _Our first 'date', the night at the Bronze when I spilled my life's tale out to her, prayin' every word wouldn't give my heart away. Then our dance… and our first true kiss, brief as it was. Then comin' back here, sittin' up with her straight 'till morning… holdin' her tight, two wounded creatures of the night takin' comfort in each other's arms._

Buffy slowly looks up from the glass of water, her eyes hard, trying desperately to stop the silent, periodic drops that have formed indigo splotches on the thighs of her jeans. She cannot cry… not now, not yet. Crying will make it real, something worth grieving over. _The body_…

"Would… would this be a'right?" Spike asks, holding up the blouse and taking a step closer to her, watching her stiff face worriedly. "P'haps one of your, um, denim jackets. An' your coat an' scarf downstairs. That suit you, luv?"

Numbly, she nods. "Help m-me."

"Oh, baby, 'course I'll help you. Here, just sit tight for a moment."

He lays the blouse on her bed, steps quickly out to the hallway bathroom, slings a fluffy towel over his arm, and moistens a washcloth, wringing it out until it's only slightly damp. Reentering Buffy's room and feeling an odd nervousness course through his body, Spike closes the door and kneels in front of her.

"Spike…"

"Right here, luv," he murmurs, gently sponging the sweat off her pale, pasty face.

"I… I'm cold… and all wet."

"From adrenaline an' then the shock, sweetheart. But I'm here now. Gonna dry you an' warm you up."

_Could heat her up another way… but wouldn't feel right, not now. Seems so selfish to think of that, the plans we had. Everything's different now. Whole world's got to find a new ruddy axis._

"I… I can't g-go get Dawn like this. My shirt is a-all wet," Buffy murmurs, speaking in blunt, straightforward sentences as though she has to force the words to travel up every inch of her throat and out her mouth.

"I know, Buffy. Put the glass down an' raise your arms now…"

She complies, her eyes still strained-looking from the effort of resisting more tears. Spike sets the washcloth on his knee and tugs the hem of her red V-neck shirt, lifting it up and over her head, then dabs the cloth along her neck and collarbones, his eyes set firmly on hers.

_Innocent. That's this bloody-odd nervous feelin'. Undressin' her, but not really touchin' her. Doin' it out of a different kind of love…_

He stands and moves behind her to rinse her back, feeling her shoulders still quaking rigidly.

"Buffy…" he whispers, tenderly dragging the small damp towel across her skin above the clasp of her white bra, "sweetheart, you… you can cry, if you need to. It's only me. Both sides of the coin, 'member? No need to hide."

"Can't," she replies sharply, like a curse. "Have… to be strong. Slayer."

"Buffy…"

"No. Slayer. Strong… for Dawn."

"Dawn's not here now, precious. Just me."

"N-no," she repeats with less assurance, back bowing slightly as he bundles her in the fluffy towel, absorbing any remaining droplets and warming her clammy skin. "If… if I start… I won't be able to stop."

"Yes you will, luv. I'll draw you back up. Let it go, baby… put it on me…"

_Long ago, that night in the kitchen… he turned up the Spanish music and held me even though I beat his chest and screamed in fear. Never forget… "Put it on me… put it all on me. That's my girl…"_

"Spike…" she whimpers, resistance caving as fresh tears swell in her eyes. "S-Spike… M-Mom…"

She crunches over and slides off the chair into his lap. He tucks the folds of the towel under her arms and across her chest, then holds her gently, rocking her. Buffy gasps and sobs, clutching his neck as he breathes words of love and care and the only comfort he feels able to give honestly, his presence. _Can't say "it'll be a'right," 'cause it's as far from a'right as east is from west. What do you say when you know that nothin' will ever be truly a'right again? When, no matter how much you scream to Heaven to get 'em back, they're gone?_

Her tears soak straight through his shirt to his skin and the unbeating but grieving heart beneath, her fingers digging red nail marks into his alabaster throat.

"I've got you, baby," he sighs against her hair, sliding out the rubber band that restrains it and running his fingers from roots to tips. "Dearest luv…"

Her right hand reaches higher, up into his hair, and tilts his head down as hers lunges forward, finding his mouth and kissing desperately, as though demanding strength from his lips. Spike cups her cheek in his palm and caresses her until she gasps for breath and drops her forehead to his cool shoulder, moaning with sobs and clinging to his torso as if his body is the last grounding point between her and oblivion.

It's several minutes before her weeping slows and words finally become distinguishable.

"Sh… she's… she's just lying there, c-c-c-cold…"

"Shh… sweetheart, can't go thinkin' that. Know this seems a bloody useless thing to say, but… Mum's not hurtin' anymore. No pain or grievin' up in Heaven."

"Hurts d-down here, though. I'm a… s-selfish bitch."

"No, 'course not, precious. Don't even think such tosh. She wouldn't want you to."

"They… th-the paramedics… said it w-was an… aneurysm. From… from surgery. C-c-coroner's c-coming."

"Watcher's on his way too. Rang him up when I was fetchin' you the water. Thought you might want him around, fatherly type."

"I sh-sh-should never have left her. If I'd b-b-been here…"

"She got the all-clear months ago, pet. No way you could've known. Can't blame yourself, Buffy," he urges, turning her chin up again so that her eyes find his. "Only leads to your brain beatin' itself in circles. Trust me."

She sniffles and nods jerkily, sitting on the carpet beside him instead of on his knees. "G-Giles is coming?"

"That's right. Best get dressed now. Watcher arrives, catches us like this, he's liable to stake me 'fore listenin' to a word of explanation."

Her dry lips twitch for the briefest moment – but nowhere near enough to form a smile – and he wipes under her eyes with the pad of his thumb, some drops clinging resolutely to her eyelashes like tiny diamonds.

"What did you… tell him?"

"Said he should come over sharpish. An'… told him why."

He stands quickly and turns his head as her hands drift toward the top of the towel where the folds cross over her breasts.

"I'll, um… let you get decent, luv."

"Spike… it's nothing you didn't see this morning."

"I know, baby… just…"

"What?" Buffy mumbles, her pale cheeks warming and her voice full of dread. "Am… am I not…?"

"You are beautiful," he says firmly before she can finish. "An' that's why I shouldn't have a peek at the goods right now. Bound to distract me an' doesn't seem fittin' at a… time like this."

Spike takes another step toward the bedroom door, and Buffy stands shakily and chokes down another sob, the towel half-slipping down her torso as she reaches for him. He snatches at it, trying to cover her again.

"Now what'd I just get done tellin' you, pet? Blouse first, a'right? Watcher's bound to jump to stake-happy conclusions."

"Stay," she begs, hands on his shirt and his neck, pressing herself to him – white-cupped bronze curves against his black garb. "Stay with me. Spike, p-please. I need you."

"Sweetheart…"

"I need you!" Buffy shakes him as her own tremors start to return. "Slayers… leave their families, no normal life… save all their strength for f-fighting evil. B-but I've used mine up. Nothing left. Nothing."

" 'Cept mine," he nods, understanding. His arms enfold her in the towel's warmth again even as she clutches his cool chest for comfort. "My strength to bear you up when this whole soddin' world's attackin' you. Yes, yes luv, I'll stay, 'course I will. Wasn't goin' anywhere 'cept the hall to let you change, but if you don't want me out'a your sight at all, I'll stay in here."

"Buffy! Spike!"

"Up here, Watcher," Spike calls out, and Buffy swallows back her sobs again and snatches up the blouse from the bed. He helps her slip the satiny shirt over her head and smooths the wrinkles, his hands skimming her waist briefly as they hear heavy footfalls on the stairs. They move to the door and open it to reveal a panting, coat-less Giles.

"So… it's true?" he gasps, taking in Buffy's blood-shot eyes and the moisture soaking Spike's shirt, immediately linking the two though his mind bristles slightly at the thought of who his surrogate daughter has chosen as her comforter. "Where?"

"Livin' room," Spike replies hoarsely. "I got here just after the paramedics. Said they'd send the… coroner."

Buffy tumbles forward into Giles's arms and squeezes him, her face back to stony, reigning in her pain.

"We… we have to get Dawn."

"Of c-course," stammers Giles, patting Buffy's shoulders. "And… then what will we… that is to say, is there to be an inquiry as to the… the nature of… what happened?"

"Y-yes, the… the paramedics said the c-c-coroner would tell us," murmurs Buffy, peeling away from Giles and sinking back against Spike, his hands resting lightly on her upper arms, ready to grip and catch her if she weakens.

"Of course," Giles nods, wresting a wadded handkerchief from his pocket and for once dabbing directly at his eyes, not his glasses lenses. "If… if you prefer to tell Dawn yourself…"

"I should."

"Yes. I… I can remain here and… handle matters."

"Spike's going with me," Buffy says quietly, her eyes meeting Giles's and silently pleading for him to accept without argument.

The Watcher inhales as if bolstering his courage, and then reaches into his pocket and produces his set of keys. He thrusts them at Spike with a mild wince.

"Aw, Rupert…"

"Don't bloody argue, Spike. Just park in a corner spot and for God's sake if I find one dent –"

"Watcher, I can't go in your car," Spike insists, smirking a bit at the obvious stress it's causing Giles to think of handing his sleek BMW over to anyone else, especially to him. "Nearly noon. Don't even have my coat. I'd parboil 'fore we got down the driveway."

"Oh," mutters Giles, slipping his keys back into his pocket with a small sigh of relief. "The… the Jeep then?"

"Yeah, figured. Keys down in the basket, luv?"

"Mmhmm."

"Right. Guess, uh… we'll meet you at the hospital then, Rupert."

Somewhat ignoring Spike, Giles squeezes Buffy's hand, then steps aside so they can descend the stairs to the foyer. Buffy keeps her face hidden against his chest, her back to the living room and her mother's prone form that still stares straight up at the ceiling, blank, untroubled, and at peace.

* * *

Spike parks the Jeep in the nearest non-handicap stop by the front awning of Sunnydale Middle School's academic building, both he and Buffy remaining silent during the short drive.

"Who are you?" she mumbles, gnawing her lip.

"Come again, luv?" Spike asks worriedly, glancing at Buffy as he withdraws the keys from the ignition.

"Earlier. When you dropped her off. Who do they think you are?"

"Oh, right. Took the liberty of sayin' I was her sister's boyfriend." He smiles and thumbs the steering wheel. "And Niblet got all defensive and blurted out that I was from England and it was my sexy accent that won your heart, even if I'm a little old for you."

"Good. Truth. Easier to remember."

Spike grins quickly, tempted to ask if it _was_ just his accent, just in the hope of watching that twitch in her lips, to let her feel something other than pain and grief, even for a moment. He shields himself with Buffy's black overcoat and they hurry inside the building.

"Art classroom's just down here, pet," he whispers, pressing a hand to her lower back and gently guiding her along the hallway until they come to a wall that's made of glass from about the waist up. Four students – Dawn the most prominent on account of her height – gather around an easel, their heads occasionally bobbing up to observe the statue serving as their model, a 2-foot tall Greek nude on their teacher's desk.

"Do you want me to go in with you, dearest?" Spike murmurs, his fingertips tracing between Buffy's clenched shoulder blades.

She nods, her face tight as she watches her sister smudging charcoal over a corner of the canvas and talking to the only boy in the group, her back to the glass wall. "Just... be with me. I'll tell her, b-but there... there must be paperwork... so she can put off her project again."

"Of course, luv. Whatever you need me to do."

He opens the door for her, and the two of them silently approach the teacher's desk.

"Can I help you?" the instructor asks, recognizing Spike from their brief encounter when he'd dropped off Dawn.

"We're, um, here for Dawn Summers," Spike mutters. "Family emergency."

Buffy moves further into the classroom, listening to Dawn's mirthful whispering voice, the teenager still unaware of their arrival.

"And this one time in history, she had this book called _Annals of History_, and she didn't know how to say the word 'annals', so she kept saying –"

"Dawn," Buffy murmurs. Her little sister turns around, grinning impishly until her eyes meet Buffy's. Dawn's jaw locks as something deep inside her realizes the one thing that would make her idolized sister look like that, with red-rimmed eyes and a iron resolution in her face.

"Dawn, I have to talk to you."

Dawn swallows, crunching her nub of art charcoal between her fingers. "Can it wait? I'm in… i-in the middle of this project."

"I know," Buffy whispers. "Please come with me."

Dawn's eyes flit toward her classmates, then to her teacher and Spike, watching him scrawl his signature on a release form. Buffy turns around towards the door, and Dawn follows her between the rows of unoccupied easels until all three of them return to the hall.

"I thought Mom was going to pick me up," says Dawn slowly, hands fisting at her sides. "What's going on? Something's going on."

"Niblet, let's… let's go outside," Spike suggests, watching Buffy and unsure from her expressionless face if she wants him to step in or not.

"No. Tell me what's going on."

"It's… bad… news," says Buffy, inflectionless again, automated.

"Well, what is it? What happened?"

Through the glass, Dawn's classmates peer at them, and Spike responds with a silent sneer and the tiniest flash of teeth. The three teenagers jump back and return to their outline, filling in the negative space.

"It's bad," Buffy repeats, her façade cracking. "Please, can we –"

"Where's Mom?" Dawn demands loudly.

Buffy winces at her sister's harsh voice, as though it's shotgun shells tearing into her. Her fingers reach through the empty air at her side until Spike understands and links his hand in hers, offering his strength.

"Mom… had an accident, or um… something went wrong… from the tumor."

"Is she okay? Is she… but she's okay, right? It's… it's serious, but she's okay…"

"Niblet…"

Dawn shakes her head, rejecting what their soft words and solemn faces make it impossible to deny.

"No…"

"Dawn," whispers Buffy, her hand clenching Spike's and shaking, the only part of her body that betrays her. "Mom… died. This morning."

"No."

"I d-don't exactly know what happened…"

"No," Dawn repeats stronger, backing away from Buffy and Spike. Her arms clench around her middle as if to hold her guts inside. "No, it's not true. You're lying! She's fine!"

"Dawnie." Buffy squeezes harder on Spike's hand, trying to look at her sister and squeeze her eyes shut at the same time, fighting the fresh flood of tears.

"No. No! No! It's not true! It's not real!"

Dawn sobs and pleads and crumples to the ground, Buffy tumbling down with her a moment later, Spike kneeling beside them. Her hand slips out of his and pulls her sister forward against her shoulder, holding her, offering comfort the same way it was given to her.

* * *

They reach the hospital just after one in the afternoon and find Giles sitting alone in the large empty waiting room of the morgue wing.

"Anything?" murmurs Buffy weakly, gripping Spike's hand for support, Dawn's gangly arms around her waist – caught in limbo between giving solace and receiving it.

"She's… been admitted," Giles replies, standing and wiping his brow with his soiled-looking handkerchief. "Doctor, um, Doctor Kriegel is in, the surgeon who performed her operation. He's… seeing to her. Gave no indication of the… the time required."

"Best settle in, then," shrugs Spike. _Hospitals an' doctors haven't changed in that respect through the whole twentieth century an' pro'ly never will. Nickel n' dime you out'a all you've got, and take their sweet bloody time doin' it. _"Summoned the cavalry yet, Rupert?"

"Yes, they're on their way from the campus now. Anya's closed the shop for the afternoon."

"Bet that rankled her," Spike snorts, feeling Buffy slightly sag against him as Dawn slips away from the two of them and hugs Giles.

"Oh, right, um, yes," the Watcher replies, flustered. "Yes, she was rather sullen and confused, but Xander promised he'd… explain."

Dawn releases Giles and slumps into a soft chair, crossing her arms around her torso again, her eyes rosy from crying all through the car ride. Removing his glasses, Giles sits as well and begins polishing the lenses, his gaze fixing guiltily on the floor.

"Buffy, I… I absolutely detest myself for bringing up such a topic at a… a time like this, but there is the, um, matter of patrolling…"

"I'll do it," Spike cuts him off bluntly. "Scooby Gang and me. Long as we're needed. Or wanted." His eyes meet Buffy's and seem to silently add, "_Till you've got enough strength back to join me_."

She nods tearfully, squeezing their linked hands, unable to smile.

"That's remarkably decent of you, Spike," nods Giles, watching Buffy's little movements with concern etching his forehead.

"I'm a pretty decent fellow lately. Must be somethin' about love, do that to a man."

"A _man_, maybe."

"Can I go get some hot chocolate?" Dawn suddenly whispers, before Buffy or Spike can respond to Rupert's low, pointed comment.

"S-sure," murmurs Buffy. "Spike… do you think you c-could take Dawn and bring us back some coffee? I want to talk to Giles."

"Course, luv," he nods, handing over Buffy's coat and gently lifting Dawn back to her feet. "Someone's got to eat all your marshmallows, eh, Platlet? Sugar or cream, Rupes?"

"No, just black will do. Thank you."

"Right-o. And yours, sweetheart? Cup of sugar with a drop of coffee?"

"Sounds good," Buffy answers with the faintest weary smile, drawing her hair back into a messy ponytail again.

Arms still tight around herself, Dawn leads the way past an adjoining hallway and pauses, looking through the window in the door marked 'Authorized Personnel Only'.

"She's down there, isn't she?"

"Yeah, I reckon," mutters Spike, voice throaty, keeping his own emotions buried deep.

"Can I see her?"

"Naw, Niblet, you don't want that. Won't help nothin'."

"Why not?" she demands as they move slowly down the next hallway toward the hospital's cafeteria. "Feels like it would. To see her."

"No, Dawnie. I swear, it won't help. Just think of 'er strong an' beautiful, hold onto that. It's what I had to do."

"For Drusilla?" wonders Dawn, stepping up to the coffee maker and finding a sleeve of hot cocoa mix.

"S'pose," he replies softly, divvying out Styrofoam cups._ Wasn't even thinkin' of Dru. Bloody hell. Dru an' Mum, both gone in the space of a couple days. Whole soddin' universe breakin' down around our ears._ "Another lady too, long ago. It's the best an' only thing we can do, pet. Just honor 'em, and miss 'em. Can't help but miss 'em."

"We were gonna make lasagna tonight. With no garlic," Dawn mumbles, watching Spike's long fingers rip the corner of a little sugar packet and pour the granules into one of the white cups.

"Still can, if you want to, Niblet."

"I don't know what I feel like doing."

"Don't need to suss that out 'till your ready, luv. Don't need to suss out anythin', really. Just gotta take each second of what life shoves down on you an' expects you to bear. Even if you feel like you're buried."

* * *

Back in the waiting room, Buffy sinks into a chair and runs her fingers over the upholstery, tracing lines through the meaningless pattern of earthy colors.

"Buffy…"

"Not now, Giles," Buffy mumbles, as close to a snap as she can manage. "Not if this is about Spike."

"Buffy, I understand that he…"

"You can't understand."

"I think I _do_ understand a little. Jenny…"

"Was killed by Angelus, not Spike, so for god's sake, stop blaming him for something he didn't do. If Angel ever shows up here again, kick his ass and put the blame where it belongs."

"That is not what I was going to say, Buffy," continues Giles, his voice gentler, doing his best to be soothing. "I merely meant that I know… what loving someone is like… and also… losing them, and how easy it is to turn to what feels comforting. I sought revenge, quite uselessly as you may recall. You… are turning to Spike."

"I don't want to hear this. Ever."

"Perhaps that indicates how much you _do_ need to hear this. Buffy…"

"He loves me."

"He is deeply devoted to you, yes, as he was devoted to Drusilla for a century, the longest known vampire couple in recorded history. But there's a world of difference between devotion and lo–"

"Spike killed Drusilla."

Giles gasps, his fingers pausing in the lens-cleaning ritual. "What? When?"

"Thursday. While we were questing." _Two deaths in three days… Death is my gift… my god… Death_ is_ my gift._

"Good lord," whispers Giles. "You're sure?"

"Yes, I'm _sure_," she retorts, clenching her hands together in her lap. "You didn't see him that night. If you had, you wouldn't have a shred of doubt. You think vampires can't love, can't feel anything. Well you're wrong, Giles. Spike loved Drusilla with everything he had for a hundred years, even though she was too insane and marred by Angel to love him back. But… she came back here and threatened me, and he fought off her thrall and staked her without a second thought… Because he loves me _more_. And… and I lo–"

"We're back," mutters Dawn grouchily, appearing around the corner with a steaming Styrofoam cup in each hand, Spike just behind her. "I still can't figure out why you grown-ups like this black gunk. I put three packs of sugar in and tried it, and it still tastes like tar."

"Just wait 'till you're in college, sweets," Spike smiles, also bearing two cups. "University makes coffee drinkers out'a even the most stalwart of hot-cocoa enthusiasts. Need the caffeine for those tough all-nighters. One black tar for you, Watcher."

Giles accepts his drink, gazing on Spike with significantly less judgment than he had before Buffy's starling news of what William the Bloody had done out of love.

"And yours, pet, sugared up, dot of milk."

He lowers the other cup into Buffy's awaiting hands and then relieves Dawn of the last coffee. The four of them drink their warm beverages in near silence, Dawn and Buffy on either sides of Spike, Giles pacing the room once his cup is drained. None of them are really sure what the time is when the nearby hallway echoes with squeaking sneaker footsteps, and Xander, Anya, Willow, and Tara appear, four red and puffy faces, the four other surrogate children of Joyce Summers.

Dawn hops up and is immediately enfolded in both the witches' arms.

"So glad you're here," she sniffles as Tara strokes her long, straight hair.

"Of course, Dawnie," replies Willow.

Buffy and Giles rise more slowly, while Spike remains seated, letting the humans mingle. Xander reaches for Buffy, hugs her tightly, and whispers, "If there's anything we can do…"

She squeezes him back, then trades one best friend for another as Willow takes his place, wrapping her sweater-clad arms around Buffy's neck, her fluffy red hair smelling of rosemary and berries.

"Love you so much."

"I know," Buffy murmurs back, eyes closing as she rests her chin on Willow's shoulder.

"Have… have you h-heard…?"

"They're not telling us anything," shrugs Dawn in answer to Tara's soft question.

Behind them, Anya half-strangles Giles with a startling hug, and Xander offers his hand to Spike.

"C'mon, Billy Idol. Can't escape the group hug. Think of it as Scooby Initiation."

"Not gonna make me streak the quad under a full moon or somethin'?" Spike smirks, standing and accepting Xander's awkward man-hug. "Gotta have standards, y'know."

"Well, the official Scooby rules say all quad-streaking must be performed at high noon, but I guess we'll have to make an exception on account of the whole sunlight issue."

"Doctor…" says Giles suddenly, alerting them all to the presence of Dr. Kriegel, walking slowly toward them and straightening the collar of his lab coat over his scrubs.

Buffy stiffly steps forward to intercept him, Giles at her side. Spike lingers between Willow and Tara until Dawn clasps his hand and pulls him along, so that Watcher, vampire, and sister form a line of defense behind the Slayer. The others stand right behind, just close enough to hear every word.

"Okay, I've examined your mother's body," says Dr. Kriegel without any sort of preamble, no attempt to soften the news.

"Can we see her?" Dawn whispers, tightening her grip on Spike's hand.

"Dawn, not now," murmurs Buffy, her eyes grimly meeting those of the physician, hearing his words without listening or absorbing.

"The on-site report seems more or less accurate. Your mother did have what looks like an aneurysm. A sudden hemorrhaging from a ruptured arterial vessel near the… where the tumor was removed."

"Sh-shouldn't we have known about that? That… there was a danger?" Buffy mumbles, everything he says going over her head except those three earlier words. _Your mother's body. My mommy's body. Doesn't really matter why, doesn't matter how. Too late to do anything._

"Sometimes these things are detectable, and sometimes they're not," answers Dr. Kriegel.

"Well it's too damn late now, in't it?" Spike retorts gruffly, his anger suddenly building, like acid boiling over, water breaking its levies. _Even worse watchin' this happen to my Slayer than it was with my own mum._ "Should've made bloody sure, shouldn't you? Should've monitored her recovery an' made sure this didn't happen. But you washed your hands of her as soon as you got your bleedin' paycheck, didn't you?"

"I knew it," grumbles Xander in a whisper, pointing from the doctor to Willow and Anya as if his scolding finger will jog the girls' memories. "Didn't I say it? _Dig a frickin' hole in your skull, here's a Band-Aid. Next!_ Said they should've checked her over, they should have had her in."

"Damn right," Spike snarls, his cobalt eyes streaked with yellow as he steps beside Buffy and stares into Dr. Kriegel's perplexed face. "Doctors never change. Just empty promises and soddin' lies. That's all you're made of, in't it? The whole breed of you."

"Excuse me, _who_ are you?" demands the doctor, but Spike ignores him and grabs a handful of the front of the flustered man's blue scrubs, growling feral snarls into his face.

"You… damned… bastard…"

"Spike, don't," murmurs Tara in a placating whisper, tears beading up in her eyes. She reaches forward to pull Dawn out of the way, but a second later Spike stumbles, wincing as the chip does its best to rip his skull apart. He fights it and charges, reels with a pained grunt, and growls as he tries yet again. This time he falls back as though decked by a hefty punch and lands on his knees, holding his head. He twitches – his brain full of lightening – and sneezes blood into his pale hands.

"Spike!" Dawn, Tara, and Willow gasp all at once, huddling around him. Buffy doesn't know whether to shove Spike into a chair and tell him to shut up, or bury her face in his shoulder and cry, or laugh, or attack the doctor herself… or do anything except continue staring mutely at a plain bit of wall behind Dr. Kriegel's ear.

"Joyce was aware of, um, the possibility of a rupture… and its effects," the doctor says, by now completely bewildered by the actions of this strange group of people. "She didn't even get on the phone, so clearly this was very sudden. I doubt there was much pain, and… even if someone _had_ been at her side, it's doubtful that this could have been dealt with in time."

This time, the only word Buffy gleans from his explanation is _pain_.

"Are you sure th-that… there wasn't a lot of pain?"

"Absolutely," Kriegel replies. "I think we can be almost positive about that."

_Absolutely. He has to lie to make us feel better_. Buffy just stares stonily ahead, so Giles steps in, clearing his throat.

"What, um, what needs to be done now?"

"Well, there'll be some forms, and some decisions you'll need to make," the doctor replies, indicating the reception desk.

"Uh, Buffy, why don't you let me handle those as much as I can?"

"Please," she whispers, nodding, her strained eyes dropping to Spike for the first time since Dr. Kriegel approached.

"We'll need you to sign a couple of release forms," the surgeon continues.

"Yes, _thank you_," says Giles brusquely, glowering at him before turning gently to Buffy. "I'll figure out which ones you need to see."

"We'll be here," she mumbles as Spike struggles up to his feet at last, mopping his bloody nose and looking sullen.

"Well, I hope you're pleased with yourself," Giles huffs at the vampire, rolling his eyes.

"Yeah?" Spike demands, lowering his hand from his nose. "Take a good, long look a'me then, Rupert. Look a'me and tell me I'm a damned hell-creature, and that son-of-a-bitch is better than me on account of his soddin' soul. That's what you believe, in't it?"

"Spike, for god's sake, your personal problems can wait."

"It really is too bad he can't eat the jerk," Xander grumbles. "Not enough monsters in this town, now the doctors gotta help them out?"

"Yeah, can _I_ kill him, then?" Dawn says through gritted teeth, her eyes venomously watching Dr. Kriegel discussing paperwork with the receptionist. Buffy just stares, unfocused, numb.

"Why don't we all just sit down?" suggests Willow, trying to herd the group towards the chairs. Giles departs, following the doctor, while the rest of them congregate near or on the bland-colored sofas. Willow and Tara flank Buffy, while Xander, Anya, and Spike remain standing, Dawn leaning against the later.

"Man, if there's one day they should _not_ give you homework," Xander sighs, observing Giles.

"Dawnie, do you wanna sit?" asks Willow kindly, but the teenager shakes her head, looking down the long back hallway toward the morgue's autopsy area.

Spike gives her arm a small squeeze, realizing from the tilt of her head what she's staring towards, what she's thinking.

"Want s'more cocoa, Niblet?" he mumbles, his voice slightly muddied due to his swollen nose.

"I don't think we're gonna have to be here very much longer," Buffy whispers up to her sister, a bit surprised at herself for managing to string so many words together.

"But what about…" Dawn's eyes follow the dark hallway again, and she seems to turn slightly stiffer. "Nothing. I have to pee."

"Do you want someone to go with you?" asks Buffy.

"No. I still remember how to pee," Dawn says in a voice like iron.

"Do you know where it is?"

"Yeah."

She plods out of the waiting room with heavy, angry footsteps, and Spike plunks himself down in the chair across from Buffy and the witches, rumpling his hair with his hands.

"I… think maybe she's… mad at me or something," Buffy murmurs, feeling liable for Dawn's churlish behavior.

"How'd she take it?" Xander asks.

"Meltdown. She just wouldn't believe me. I still don't think she does."

"I wish that Joyce didn't die!" Anya blurts out, her volume startling them all. In a much softer voice, she finishes, "Because she was nice, and now we all hurt."

"Anya, ever the wordsmith," smiles Xander, cheeks slightly rosy.

"Thank you," Buffy says to the former demon, sincerely trying to smile but just falling short.

"S'pose I should apologize, luv," Spike sighs, the chip-induced nosebleed finally stemmed. "Shouldn't've done that to the ponce. Stupid of me, shoutin', tryin' to rough him up."

"Hey, man, we were all thinking it," Xander shrugs. "Bedside manner of Olaf the Arm-breaking Troll. If there was one guy who deserved a taste of his own medicine…"

"Do you… want anything?" Willow interrupts, glancing at her watch and gently touching Buffy's shoulder. "Something to eat… or soda?"

"Honestly… I couldn't tell." _It's been hours since that coffee, and I feel like there's a chunk of stone in my stomach, or that all of me is just a chunk of stone._

"Well, I… I think you should _try_ to eat something."

"Yeah, m-maybe Dawn could use a snack."

"I'll find something," Willow assures her, standing and tugging Xander's arm. "Xander, do you have any money?"

"We'll come with," he nods, and he and Anya follow Willow toward the cafeteria and vending machines, leaving Buffy and Tara beside one another on the couch, Spike facing them.

"I'm sorry you have to go through all this," Buffy whispers to the woman beside her, remembering the empathetic blonde's face only a few nights ago, bearing Spike's pain with him.

"You don't have to worry about me," says Tara softly. _This is a familiar sorrow, more easily borne._

"Everybody wants to help," murmurs Buffy, not really addressing either of her listeners. "I don't even know if I'm… here. I don't know what's going on. Never done this – that's just an amazingly dumb thing to say. Obviously, I've never done this before."

"I have," breathes Tara after a small pause, meeting Buffy's gaze. "My mother died when I was seventeen."

"I… didn't know. I'm sorry."

"No, no, I didn't mean… I'm only telling you this because… I know it's not m-my place but… There're things, thoughts and reactions I had that I couldn't understand or even try to explain to anyone else. Thoughts that… made me feel like I was losing it, or like I was some kind of h-horrible person. I know it's different for you… because it's always different, but… if you ever need…"

Buffy nods, thankful for more than just Tara's empathy. _All these flashes, things I could have done differently… if Spike and I had stayed up in my bedroom all morning, if I'd beaten April just a little bit faster, if Dawn hadn't needed to do her school project… if only… if only… if only…_

"Was it sudden?" she asks quietly, unaware that Tara had looked down at the floor.

"What?"

"Your mother."

"No… and yes. It's always sudden."

Her gaze turns to Spike, who closes his eyes with a brief nod before standing, crossing toward them, and kneeling in front of Buffy. He presses her hand to his lips, his head on level with her knee, an oddly submissive posture. She combs her other fingers through his hair, pinching crisp parts where the gel is spread unevenly.

Willow, Xander, and Anya shuffle in from the cafeteria, burdened down with soda cans, precariously balanced coffee cups, and wrapped packages of junk food.

"We panicked," explains Willow, looking sheepish.

"Yuh-huh," Buffy nods. Spike stands with a light hollow chuckle and relieves Xander of one of the coffee cups.

"The sandwiches are meat," says Anya, only slightly less cheerfully than usual.

"Thanks, but I'm just not hungry."

"What about Dawnie?" asks Willow, waddling over and sitting down to share with Tara.

Xander looks around. "Is she still in the bathroom?"

"I guess…"

Spike chugs a mouthful of the coffee, shakes his head as he swallows, and then turns his head sharply, ears pricked. "Hear that, luv?"

Buffy shakes her head. Senses wary, he sets the cup down, steps briskly to the hallway, and glances at the door marked 'Authorized Personnel Only'. She follows him, her steps rigid.

"Spike?"

He pushes the door open and narrows his gaze down the long dark hallway, making out movement through the small window into the morgue's examination room. The faintest sound of a scream touches the couple's enhanced ears.

"God, no…"

Spike charges, and Buffy's instantly on his heels, hearing Dawn shriek again as they slam against the locked door. The second time he throws his shoulder against the door it gives way, and Buffy races inside and hauls the sallow naked creature off of Dawn, hurling it toward Spike. He catches the newborn vampire with one hand around its throat and slams its face into a steel gurney with a resounding _CLANG_.

Dawn lands on the floor, tugging slightly at one of the bodies' sheets as she falls. The cloth slips to reveal a blue face framed by soft gold hair, eyes that stare unblinkingly towards the sky.

Buffy rounds on the fledgling vampire, spinning him around to face her and kneeing him in the groin with every ounce of her remaining strength. He topples to the floor, and Spike bears down on him with a handsaw, shoving the blade into its neck until it cuts through cleanly. The creature's dust scatters across the tile floor, and the saw clatters, slipping from Spike's fingers. He and Buffy turn to Dawn, who ignores them completely, her eyes glued to the frozen face on the center gurney.

"Dawn…" breathes Buffy, torn between running to cover her mother's unmoving body or to flee in the opposite direction, leave the hated hospital and never look back.

"Is she c-cold?" Dawn whispers, tears tracing her voice.

"It's not her, Niblet," murmurs Spike, taking Buffy's shuddering shoulders in both his hands, letting her lean back against his chest, siphon all the strength she needs. "It's not her… she's gone."

Dawn frowns as a pair of tears trickle down her cheeks. "Where'd she go?"

Her hand moves seemingly of its own accord, stretching toward Joyce's cheek.

"Dawnie…" Buffy moans, watching her sister's fingertips draw nearer… and nearer… and then recoil instantly at the feel of her mother's cold, dry skin.

"Mommy… oh god…"

"Mum's in Heaven now, luv," says Spike, a sort of urgent hoarseness coating his voice. He steps up to the examination table, touches the twined fingertips of his right hand to his forehead, mid-chest, and each shoulder – the sign of the cross, each motion of the holy gesture burning him slightly, steam issuing off his skin – and then straightens the shroud, covering Joyce's face once more as Dawn shatters into sobs.

* * *

_Lord, make me an instrument of your peace  
Where there is hatred, let me sow love.  
Where there is injury, pardon  
Where there is doubt, faith  
Where there is despair, hope  
Where there is darkness, light  
Where there is sadness, joy  
O Divine Master, grant that I may  
Not so much seek to be consoled as to console  
To be understood as to understand  
To be loved as to love  
For it's in giving that we receive  
And it's in pardoning that we are pardoned  
And it's in dying that we are born to eternal life. Amen._

* * *

_To be continued…_

_Author's Note: Final song is Sarah McLauchlan's 'Prayer of St. Francis' from "Grave", the last episode of season 6._


End file.
